Trees in November
by CheckSix
Summary: A long story that ultimately focuses on the bond between Anakin and Rex. Part I: Returning from a mission, Rex and Cody's shuttle is shot down. They find themselves taking refuge in a religious community while both the enemy and their own forces search for them. Part II: A flashback to Rex and Cody's ARC days, the start of their friendship. Parts III and IV in separate thread.
1. Chapter 1

_**Dear Reader, This is part I of a multi-part tale. I started publishing this story on another site, but I decided to publish it here as well and take a different bent on it. So, if you're reading and think, "Hey I've seen that elsewhere! This is plagiarism!" , no, no, it's just me posting here, too. I'm a clone fan through and through, and that's what this story is about - the relationship between Anakin Skywalker and his clone troopers, Captain Rex, in particular. It seemed to me that TCW always focused on Anakin's attachment to Obiwan, Ahsoka, Padme, his mother . . . but what about his attachment to his troopers, which seems to me to be incredibly strong. No slash in this, but there will be some brutal stuff in later chapters.**_

 _ **The title is taken from a line in Watership Down, by Richard Adams, in which Pipkin refers to the rabbits in Cowslip's Warren as seeming "sad, like trees in November." Given that the clones are meant to fight and die, I thought it was an apropos title. I welcome feedback, and I hope you enjoy. Peace, CS**_

* * *

Chapter 1 Rustling in the Breeze

 _"I know that plans and reality may be two different things, but I think my demands on life are minimal."_

Moshe Dayan

 _"Damn . . . for the love of . . . "_

He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he picked himself up off the floor and frowned at yet another patch of bloody skin – this time on his left knee. If he kept on at this rate, it wouldn't be long before he had more broken skin than whole. Both elbows were already raw and streaked red; he had welts—dozens of them on his arms and legs; and a sizeable bruise was forming above his right eye.

Taking a beating might be something he had grown used to, but usually the one delivering the pounding was an easily identified enemy.

Not a brother.

"Point. Game. Set. I win again."

He raised an eye and regarded the speaker with an expression mildly accusative and only marginally more dismissive. "That's only because you cheated. You always cheat. And next time I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me before activating the grav."

"Are you _whining_ , Commander? You were already practically on the floor. I just . . . speeded your descent. Besides, the goal is to win. I do whatever it takes to beat you." The man smiled wickedly. "Not that it's difficult; it's like playing against an old man. I buried you five straight, Cody."

Cody adjusted his head gear, deciding it was improperly labeled 'protective.' It had protected him very little from his brother's overly aggressive manner of sportsmanship.

Zero gravity ball—or, in common parlance, z-grav—was a grueling enough game as it was – a hybrid of racquetball and demolition wrestling, played in the weightlessness of zero gravity; but the way Rex played it—without rules and with a vehemence that bordered on diabolical—it took on a whole new character as a test of manhood and strength, cunning and brutality.

Cody had never known anyone as competitive as Rex; and that was saying something, considering that millions of clones shared the same DNA that ran through Rex's veins, including Cody himself. Yet, there were none who could bring the fight to each and every situation with the same single-minded determination as Rex.

"Okay, then . . _. youngling_ ," Cody droned, picking up Rex's accusation of geriatrics and responding in kind, as if he were indulging an over-confident child, despite the fact that Cody was only one chronological year older than Rex. And given that the clones aged at twice the rate of traditionally reproduced humans, that never put Rex more than two years behind Cody's physiological age." Let's make it best 8 out of 15."

Rex grinned. "Are you sure you can make it through three more games? You, uh, you look pretty rough."

Cody walked over to the grav-act panel and re-activated zero gravity. "I'll try." He pushed off and stopped his motion halfway up the wall. Rex floated up beside him.

"I'll even let you serve," Rex held out the ball in an overly magnanimous manner.

"I thank you, but that's not necessary," Cody replied.

"Suit yourself." Rex could not hide his taunting smile.

But that didn't bother Cody in the least. In fact, it was one of the things Cody most liked about his brother. The arrogant, over-confident bravado was as much a part of Rex as the trade-mark blond buzz cut he sported – a look no other clone dared attempt, a look that defined Rex and Rex alone.

Rex might have a healthier dose of swagger than most clones, but he also had the skills and the brains to back it up. Rex was the consummate officer, loyal not only to his commanders but also to his brothers. It was that determination to protect both those he served and those who served under him that formed the basis for his unwavering enthusiasm for whatever task he undertook.

Of course, there was also the matter of his commanding officer . . . and Rex's personal mission to be the best captain any superior could ask for.

Cody had long concluded that a good deal of Rex's surety in his abilities came from serving under General Skywalker – an effective yet unorthodox leader, if ever there was one. Not that Cody was under any illusion that Rex's cocksure manner was solely due to the general's influence. Rex had been a hotshot before meeting Skywalker. The Jedi General had only loosened the coils of rigid thinking by which Rex had been constrained, opening up a whole new world of methods by which a Jedi and his captain could fly through any mission by the seat of their pants.

Amazing how similar the two were in their approach to combat . . .

Aggressive. Violent. Competent.

And very often, impetuous.

"Just serve," Cody said evenly.

Rex let go of the ball and it floated before him for a second before he slammed it with the narrow, flat-sided paddle. Cody made an easy return, launching himself away from the wall and coming to the opposite side just in time to spring down and away again as Rex sent the ball flying into an upper corner. It ricocheted at a right angle, slowing down, and headed towards the bottom corner where Cody was waiting.

Cody drove the ball straight up and watched as Rex flew across the top of the court with such speed and reckless abandon that, even as he returned the ball, he crashed into the far wall and rebounded into open space. Rex's progress through the air was so quick that Cody had already hit the ball and sent it into the starboard wall, where it angled straight for Rex, floating and flailing desperately in the center of the court. Striking the ball provided just enough propulsion to send Rex slowly back towards the port wall, from which he would be able to push off on the next exchange.

Except there was no next exchange. Cody barely tapped the ball before launching himself towards the grav-act panel. One sharp jab of his elbow reactivated the artificial gravity, and from mid-air, Rex came crashing face-first to the floor, the ball landing beside him, with a series of mocking bounces.

Cody walked over, pulling off his head gear. "I think I win this one."

Rex groaned and pushed up onto his knees. "What—what—what—"

"Are you trying to say something?" Cody poked.

"That doesn't count! You activated the grav – while the ball was still in play!" Rex protested, getting to his feet and raising a hand to his nose, which was bubbling forth a bloody spume.

"Yes."

"You cheated!"

Cody's face was like stone. "I did what I had to do to beat you." He loved using Rex's own words against him.

"That's—you never break the rules," Rex said in disbelief, although Cody thought he recognized a hint of misplaced pride in his voice. "I'm impressed."

"Hm, don't be," Cody chastised gently. "I was trying to teach you a lesson." He held out a small hand towel. "You're getting blood all over the place."

Rex accepted the towel and attempted to staunch the bleeding. "You did teach me a lesson," he replied. "I've learned that even you can be driven to play dirty."

"No, I was trying to teach you that you're not the only one who can win by cheating. And our enemies are better cheaters than you and I will ever be."

"Yes, but I _expect_ the enemy to cheat. Not _you_."

"You know better," Cody told him. "The longer the war goes on, the more cunning our enemies get."

"They're droids. They're not _that_ creative," Rex disagreed.

"Their leaders aren't droids," Cody pointed out. "And there are plenty of Separatist-aligned planets with populations perfectly willing to fight against us – and they're not droids."

Rex inclined his head in concession. "Point taken." Then, as if already bored with the conversation, he picked up the ball and attempted to hand it to the commander. "Your serve."

But Cody would not take it. "No, I think we're done."

"Wait, you said best 8 out of 15," Rex stated.

"Yeah, I didn't mean it." Cody gave a cheeky grin. "I just wanted to knock you on your fourth point of contact. Once was enough."

Rex clapped him on the shoulder. "I think I'm finally rubbing off on you."

Cody took it in stride, his smile still in place. "Too bad it's not the other way around."

* * *

"I thought we were supposed to have some downtime."

The lament was something General Obiwan Kenobi had heard before from his former padawan and now fellow Jedi and general, Anakin Skywalker. Though military leadership had conceded the truth fairly early on in the war that even men bred for combat – even clones – needed time away from the battlefield, time to regather their strength, not to mention their wits, that had not necessarily translated into action. Since the war's beginning, it was an unfortunate situation that most clones had not experienced more than a week of rest away from the battlefield, and some clones not even that. Units like the 501st Legion and 212th Attack Battalion, over which Skywalker and Kenobi exercised command, respectively, had seen combat almost nonstop since the battle of Geonosis, the opening salvos of the war.

"Let's wait until we hear what this briefing is about," Obiwan replied calmly. "It may just be a situation brief."

Anakin simpered, stopping just short of a more dubious expression of skepticism. "Do you really believe that?"

"Anything's possible."

"Oh, that makes me feel a lot better."

They entered the command briefing room and found Admiral Yularen awaiting them.

"Good, good. Now that you're here. . . " The admiral spoke over his shoulder to the clone communications officer. "Raise the Jedi Council."

Within seconds, contact was established and the holo-conference began.

Yularen started directly. "Sector intelligence reports that Separatist forces are in the process of establishing a base on Pylotta, the fourth moon of Pylanee to use as a launch platform for operations in the Riggi system." He nodded at his top intelligence officer, a Khil named Kamat, an identification and recognition expert with vast experience deciphering the often poor quality holo images that were turned over by the intelligence teams. Kamat had a look of wisdom that was in contrast to his waving mouth tendrils, vestiges of an aquatic past that brought forth a voice almost musical in quality. At the press of a button, a series of reconnaissance images opened up within the holo projection.

"Pylotta is a massive moon with an equatorial diameter of almost 16,000 kilometers," Kamat began. "80 percent of the surface is water. There are at least a dozen major landmasses and varied climates, as well as landscapes. Our concern is on this landmass here in the southern hemisphere; it's called Yempshew. As you can see, it stretches nearly halfway around the planet more or less between the thirtieth and fiftieth parallels. On the southernmost point, here, almost aligned on the terminus, is where the Separatists appear to be building their base."

He zoomed the image in to show a mountainous region with shallow, flat valleys running northwest to southeast.

"The terrain is difficult from the coast all the way up to the base. It's mostly bare volcanic rock along the coast, but as you move northward away from the sea, these mountains – the Ypreian Range – rise up, and they are heavily forested. At this time of year, mid-summer in the southern hemisphere, it's sweltering hot, even in the higher elevations, but the humidity hovers around 50 percent, so it's rather pleasant weather." A pause, then he spoke into the voice recognition sensor. "Show me latitude: 47°37′56″ N, Longitude: 13°00′06″ E, elevation 574 meters."

Again, the image adjusted, and a broad valley appeared. There were clearly several landing pads and guideways in various stages of construction, though it looked very rough. A derelict cinder block building stood at one end of what looked like a pair of old aviation-style runways; and a few large hangars lined either side of the tarmac. When Kamat spoke again, his words explained what they were looking at.

"This is an old abandoned airfield, left over from the days when the Pylottans were only advanced to aviation. Within fifty years of achieving hyper-space capabilities, they had all but abandoned other modes of flight. The airfield was maintained for a while, but it's since fallen into disrepair."

Another adjustment to the image.

"But they had a reason for maintaining it as long as they did, and the Separatists have a reason for choosing it as a base. These mountains all around it, they have massive underground bunkers, some large enough to fit a Dreadnaught-class heavy cruiser. This used to be a remote war headquarters for the Yempshew Union. Not only that, but it is a difficult place to aggress and an easy place to defend. As an airfield, they also used it to deliver supplies to the surrounding villages and bring tourists and researchers in and out of the area, because, as you can see, it's quite remote. The mountains make it hard to mount a ground assault, and they also make bombing runs tricky, given that one concussion too many could bring about massive landslides, destroying any number of small villages."

Anakin, never one to mince words, cut to the chase. "Who are these Pylottans aligned with?"

"Now, that's a complicated matter," Kamat replied. "Although the planet has a ruling head—the Office of the Orator—the continental leaders have chosen different sides in the war. The Orator is a man named Deccat, and he has no desire to be involved in the war at all. The Yempshew leader is Praetor Hube, and he has given his approval for the Separatists to establish a base on his continent. But from what intel has gathered, while the Separatists are providing raw materials and machinery, they're not providing manpower—or droidpower, as it were. The Yempshews are the ones building the base, with the agreement that once the war is over, the base will revert to their exclusive use."

"It's being built by forced labor?" This from Mace Windu.

"It doesn't appear so, General Windu," Kamat replied. "It looks like these workers are willing, well-kept, and well-paid. Even more . . . " He scrolled the image to show the northwest end of the valley. "This is about two kilometers from the airfield. It's a military post. Recently constructed, and there are at least 1,500 Yempshew soldiers stationed there."

"So, any attack on the airfield will likely bring the army down on us," Obiwan noted. "An army of humans on an undeclared planet."

Anakin didn't care whether the enemy was human or whether the planet had claimed neutrality. Not everyone on the surface was neutral. He spoke up. "A battalion could take both locations, gentlemen. The 501st could knock this out in a matter of hours."

"What's the defensive capability at the airfield?" Master Windu asked.

"Intel shows that it's lightly manned since it's still under construction. This small building here seems to be the only place that's shown any signs of life – sort of a sentry, lookout point. But there are constant foot patrols in the area. It's definitely going to require a light touch," Kamat replied.

"A light touch?" Obiwan sniffed. "I assume that means we're going in."

"As it turns out, Skywalker is right," Mace stated, and he sounded almost reluctant to admit it. "A battalion-sized element can handle this. But it's got to be a quiet job. The Head of the Interplanetary Council has already been in touch with Orator Deccat, who has given the go-ahead for our forces to take over the airfield and leave a contingency force behind to augment the military presence he'll be sending down to hold and establish control in the area."

"How is _that_ quiet?" Obiwan asked.

Mace was unfazed. "He is the planetary leader, and he has the right to govern his own planet. Our job is to take that airfield and hold it; or barring that, destroy it so it can't be of any use to the Separatists. That is the ultimate goal. We have to keep them off that planet. Put your best minds on it. Devise a plan and we'll have another briefing at 1900 hours."

When the holo-conference ended, Admiral Yularen looked expectantly at the two Jedi generals sharing the briefing room with him. "Which battalion will be going in?"

Not surprisingly, before Obiwan could even open his mouth, Anakin had volunteered the 501st. "I think this sounds like a good job for my guys." He looked to his former master. "Your air wing of the 212th can drop us in—"

"May I interrupt, Sirs?" Kamat said in a quiet voice that yet commanded attention.

"Of course, Major," Admiral Yularen replied.

"There is no way to take gunships to the target without giving away your presence," he pointed out. "They would hear gunships echoing through those mountains long before you arrived. Their patrols would spot a battalion-sized element well in advance. You're going to have to find a way to get in there undetected, blind them, and then get the rest of the battalion down without word getting to the outpost."

"What do you suggest?" Anakin asked.

But it was Admiral Yularen who spoke next. "I suggest you go bring your firsts-in-command and other tactical planners and we'll meet in War Room 3 at 1315 sharp. This is a plan that must be developed together."

"Agreed," Obiwan nodded. "Then we'll see you at 1315."

With that, he and Anakin walked out of the room.

"Great. So much for downtime," Anakin simpered.

"Yes, well, I didn't see you hesitate to volunteer _your_ battalion," Obiwan said. "Honestly, Anakin, one might think you enjoy battle more than peace."

"Well, at least Rex will be happy to hear we're going into action again," Anakin grinned gamely.

"What a surprise that is," Obiwan said drolly. "Are you sure he wouldn't rather be blasting droids right now as opposed to taking downtime?"

Anakin grinned. "You might be right."

The doors to the lift opened, and the two Jedi found themselves face-to-face with their first-in-command clone officers.

Obiwan took in the two men's appearance and a crease formed on his forehead. "Maybe we should wait for the next lift."

But Anakin already had one foot inside the door. "No, no, there's plenty of room. Besides, I can't wait to hear about this one."

Obiwan stepped inside and the doors closed behind him. "Deck B-12." A pause. "Another friendly game of z-grav?"

"Yes, Sir," Cody replied.

Rex nodded his concurrence.

Obiwan allowed some humor to curl one corner of his mouth. "If you keep beating each other up on the court, you're leaving very little to our enemies."

"Uh, _one_ of us is much more beat up than the other . . . Sir," Cody pointed out, referencing himself. "Not _all of us_ play the game as if it were a matter of life and death."

Anakin's chest swelled with a strange sense of vicarious accomplishment. He looked to Rex, "I take it that means you won."

"Of course, I did, General." Then, seeing the turn of Cody's head from the corner of his eye, he quickly added, "Well, all but the last game. The commander pulled a fast one on me."

"Is that what this is all about?" Anakin gestured towards the bloody smear down the front of Rex's shirt.

Rex actually gave a small laugh. "Yes, Sir."

Anakin's gaze went to Cody. "I hope Rex didn't bust _you_ up too badly."

"No worse than usual, Sir."

Obiwan shook his head in mock chastisement. "Are we going to have to ban you two from the recreation decks?"

"No, General," both men replied in unison.

Obiwan looked skeptical. "Mm, I suppose that remains to be seen. In the meantime, go get yourselves cleaned up. We've got a mission brief at 1315 hours in WR3."

"We'll be there, Sir," Cody assured him.

The lift arrived on Deck B-12, and the two Jedi generals exited.

They'd not gone a half-dozen paces before Anakin gave in to temptation. "Looks like my captain mopped the floor with your commander."

Obiwan was not ruffled. "When your captain puts his mind to something, there's no one better. _Except_ my commander."

Anakin tried to think of a witty comeback, but his mind simply would not head in that direction. Instead, he said earnestly, "We got lucky, you know?"

"Hm?"

"With Cody and Rex. They suit us perfectly, and they've managed to stay alive."

Obiwan nodded his understanding and agreement. "I think they _became_ the perfect clone officers for us. They're bred to be adaptable. And they both seemed to have adapted to our leadership styles – different as you and I may be." He chuckled. "And if you and I have managed to work together all these years, it's no wonder those two manage to work together as well. That is, unless they render each other senseless first. Honestly, what's the purpose in knocking yourself out playing a ridiculous game?"

Anakin shrugged. "It's fun."

"Fun?"

"They're soldiers, Obiwan. Competing where death isn't involved . . . that's their idea of fun."

Obiwan wasn't sure if he believed that.

But he feared . . . it just might be the truth.


	2. Chapter 2

**This is a repost of this chapter to correct an error. I had originally identified Pitch as a loaner from the 212th, when he actually with the 501st. CS**

Chapter 2 Pathfinders

" _When I got up the nerve to look around the hedge, I saw a panzer hidden in the wood up ahead. That was what had got us. Corporal Wiggins was lying in the road, and all I could think was where the hell is the captain? Turns out he was right behind me the whole time."_

Memoir of Ken Clarke, 250th Company, Royal Army Service Corps, recalling his service in the Battle of Arnhem

* * *

It was decided. They were going to do this the old-fashioned way.

They were going to jump.

By parachute.

Well, not all of them. A sort of _pathfinder_ unit was to go out in advance, mark the landing zone for the rest of the battalion, and scout ahead for activity prior to the arrival of the battalion's main body. They would be the ones jumping from the cold heights of oblivion.

No jetpacks. The ignition of the rockets to slow their descent might be detected and blow the entire operation. And given the altitude from which they'd be jumping, they would need a longer burn than usual to avoid ending up as nothing but a colorful splatter on the ground.

The gunship would not descend below 15,000 meters. This was a high-altitude, low opening jump – HALO – as it was commonly referred to; and it was not something regularly practiced, even in specialty units, of which the 501st was the pinnacle. But it was something Rex loved with a passion. Still, he knew it was not an easy thing, so he had been very particular in choosing the handful of team members who would accompany him.

Jesse, a born second-in-command if ever there was one – steady, resourceful, and well-liked by the men. Kix, one of the battalion's medics – just in case. Hardcase, because he was fearless and loved jumping almost as much as Rex. Pitch, a no-nonsense demolitions expert. Moog, a communications genius and loaner from the 212th. And then the two newest additions to the 501st: Echo and Fives, because they had proven on the Rishi moon that they had the smarts to match the guts, and Rex could tell from the scant four weeks since he'd inducted them on his own initiative into the 501st that here were two men whom he could count on, two men who would get the job done.

That was his advance team.

After their insertion, two companies of the 501st, augmented by personnel from the 212th, would come in HALO once given the all-clear. They would be bringing light armament, but with enough firepower to take out any resistance the airfield might offer. And then came the small window of opportunity to get the main body of the 501st on the ground before the military outpost overran the clones already on the ground.

Rex and Cody had worked feverishly with their Jedi generals, Admiral Yularen, and the rest of the tactical advisors in developing a plan they felt would pass muster with the Jedi Council; and pass muster, it did, after much back and forth, and—if Rex were any judge—too much focus on avoiding civilian casualties as opposed to securing the objective. But the briefings were over, and they were reaching zero hour.

Rex stood in the open door of the gunship – its official designation was Low Altitude Attack Transport, but who had time to say all that? – ready to lift off with his team.

General Skywalker, standing on the hangar floor, addressed him with a quirky grin. It was his way of keeping nerves at bay. "I'll be seeing you in two hours, Rex. Make sure you leave a little fighting for me and Ahsoka."

"I'll do what I can, Sir," Rex replied.

Beside the general, padawan Ahsoka Tano, a pretty little Tagruta, a teenager, inclined her head and winked. "Try not to have too much fun, _captain_."

Rex nodded once.

"Time hack." General Skywalker announced. "On my mark. Zero-three-hundred. Three-two-one-hack."

Once their chronometers were synchronized, Anakin signaled the pilot, a 212th fastburner named Three-Point, that he was clear. He slapped the side of the gunship as the doors closed.

It wasn't until the ship was out of the hangar and out of sight that he drew in a deep breath and said, "Good luck, boys."

* * *

The jump master gave the signal to get to the ready line. In the dim red light inside the gunship, the man, though helmeted, looked almost demonic. Certainly, he commanded the heavily equipped clones in his charge with the authority of a supernatural force. They obeyed his every word without question, without hesitation.

Rex stepped up to the line.

Now came the pounding heart and the shortness of breath, the sweat and jitter of anticipation.

Rex knew the feeling well. It was one of the things he lived for. Casting a glance back over his shoulder, he saw, in the weak and flickering light, his seven brothers, all outfitted with the same bulky trappings of their undertaking; and he could sense the same grim expressions beneath their helmets.

A blast of cold air, felt even through the protective layer of armor, hit Rex as the side door of the gunship drew back to reveal the blue-black of a nearly star-less sky. Exposed to the elements at this altitude, the armor offered protection and enough emergency oxygen to see him safely to the ground, provided nothing went wrong. He turned to face the man behind him, Jesse, to conduct one final check for loose straps or pieces of equipment that might upset the delicate equilibrium of a man free-falling through space. Everything was in order, and with the check completed, Rex turned as Jesse performed the same routine on his equipment. Again, all was good to go.

Rex stepped to the threshold, braced himself against the frame, and looked out into a darkness so vast as to be without boundary or depth. Nothing above or below him. Nothing to the left or the right. At this height and in this blackness, there was no perspective and even less sense of natural law. Only the stars glinted just beyond his realm of attention.

A man throwing himself down from this height must die, but the contraption Rex wore on his back insisted otherwise. And Rex had come to trust the contraption; it had been a reliable companion the few times he'd had to use it out of necessity. What he did for fun . . . now, that was what had forged and cemented his trust in a wad of nylon strong enough to hold his weight and then some.

The green light came on, and the jump master, not saying a word, made a chopping motion with his hand. Rex stepped up and without hesitation, sprang out into the nothingness. Despite being weighed down by the accoutrements of war, he felt an incredible sense of freedom and isolation as he plummeted towards the ground. He had yet to find an experience to rival that of jumping, and even the prospect of what he might face on the ground did nothing to lessen the euphoric feeling of sailing like a bird, even though, in fact, he was falling like a rock.

Seconds, then minutes, passed as Rex reached terminal velocity. He watched the altimeter numbers scrolling by at lightning speed in his helmet's headsup display. He had been mentally and physically preparing himself for the opening shock that would accompany the deployment of his chute; and now, as the numbers on the altimeter approached 900 meters, he steeled himself for what was his least favorite part of the entire sequence.

He pressed a button on a special wristband, heard a violent rustling above him, then felt the harsh jerk around his shoulders and groin. He was no longer falling, and he could just make out the faint outlines of his teammates' parachutes opening close by. He could also now discern a few features of the previously feature-less ground below him.

If the intel had been correct—and that was never a given—Rex and his men were dropping onto a broad, grassy floodplain at least 1.5 kilometers from the nearest inhabitants of the area and 3.5 kilometers upstream from the airfield, following the line of the river. So far, from 150 meters up, it looked like the reports on the area had been correct. He could see no lights, no trees or bushes. No people.

As soon as he was on the ground, he released the snap connectors and slipped out of his harness. Within a matter of seconds, the rest of his team had landed, met up, and having already been instructed on their various tasks, they immediately set about executing their predesignated assignments.

Hardcase, Fives, Kix and Pitch were to mark the landing zone for the two companies scheduled to drop in ninety minutes behind them, while Jesse, Echo and Moog gathered around their captain.

Rex took out his GPS. "Right on target," he remarked to Jesse.

"Like threading the needle," Jesse replied. Jesse was a lieutenant and had been in the 501st since its inception, since before Rex had even taken over as captain. He was responsible, a bit impetuous – but Rex liked that – and one of the best tactical minds Rex had ever known. Plus, he was a damned good shot. He wore a tattoo of the Republic Seal over one side of his face, and he wore it with pride. He was, for all intents and purposes, Rex's deputy.

Rex took out a palm-holo projector – HOPO for short – and pulled up a map of the area.

"The airfield is about four kilometers downstream. We came down on the far end of the drop zone," Rex announced. "Let's get moving."

After the first kilometer, the flood plain narrowed into two tree-lined banks as the river wended its way into the forest. The clones moved in rapid silence. There was a disconcerting emptiness in the wood, and the quiet was troubling. The forests that Rex knew, whether they be on Naboo or Felucia or whatever other far-flung worlds he'd been on – they were never this silent, even at night when the daytime noises of machinery and humanity ebbed and ceased for a few fleeting hours, giving way to the more natural and subtle sounds of the nocturnal forest.

But not so here. In this place, there was not the sound of a single animal. No wind blowing through the trees. No pattering of padded feet. No crunching of leaves or snapping of twigs. The openness between the trees negated any concept of cover and kept Rex constantly on the lookout for defensible positions in the event of an ambush.

At last, they came to the other end of the woods, where the river entered the open space before them and made an awkward, man-engineered turn to the left, and tinkled over the pebbly river bed back into the forest and out of sight.

Before them was their objective: the airfield.

Rex checked his chronometer. Zero-five-fifteen. They were moving right on schedule. It had taken his group nearly an hour of very cautious advancing to get to this point, and they still had thirty minutes before General Skywalker and Commander Tano would be jumping in with their companies. General Skywalker would want an update as soon as he hit the ground, and Rex wanted to be able to tell him something.

He used the night vision on his range-finder and activated the scoping function.

"There it is," he said quietly, taking in the sight of the hangars, the cinder block building, and the barely discernible outlines of worn patches of ground that marked the boundaries of the derelict runways and new construction sites. On the near end of one of the parallel runways was the burned-out fuselage of some unfortunate craft that had never been removed after meetings its end.

Beside him, Jesse was looking through the night vision scope on his DC-15S. "Not much to it, is there?"

Rex made a visual scan. "No activity."

"It looks deserted," Jesse observed.

After a moment, Rex replied in a thoughtful voice, "Yes, it does. But that's not what the intel report said."

"No more than a dozen men."

"Right."

"Usually eight patrolling and the remainder inside the cinderblock building."

On Rex's other side was Moog, carrying a gross encumbrance of communications equipment. He held up his hand. "I'm picking up the task force." A pause. "They're on schedule."

Rex gave a curt nod. "Right. Then, let's go."

Rex, Jesse, Moog and Echo skirted along the edge of the wood then made a fast, low dash across a hundred meter gap to the remains of the unlucky aircraft. From here, Rex made another scan through his range finder.

"Two figures," he announced. "Heading away from the building, following the line of the runway, heading away from us."

"Part of the patrol?"

"Possibly." Rex continued his search. "I don't see any other figures, but those two had to come from somewhere. The windows in that building must be blacked out."

"Shall I take Echo and go in for a closer look, Sir?" Jesse asked.

"Yes."

Jesse motioned to Echo, and they broke from the dubious safety of the ruined aircraft and covered the 50 meters to the building in a matter of seconds, pressing themselves flat against the wall. Jesse nodded, silent direction for Echo to check out the back of the structure; then as Echo disappeared around the corner, the lieutenant edged closer to the nearest window.

Leaning slightly forward, he could make out a sliver of light at the edge of the window frame. Rex had been right; the windows had been blacked out. He moved closer and noticed there was no glass in the window at all – just wooden slats painted black. He turned his head and listened. After a few seconds, he was able to discern at least three distinct voices. Of more, he could not be sure. They were speaking their native tongue, which amounted to gibberish as far as Jesse was concerned. It was a harsh, angry-sounding language, and it had the strange effect of arousing the lieutenant's ire and distaste. Whoever the men inside the building were, Jesse felt a loathsome disdain for them.

Echo returned from around the back of the building, and together the two men made the return run to the wreckage and the rest of the team.

"The windows are blacked out. I could make out three voices. Maybe more," Jesse began. "I couldn't see inside to determine weapons. Echo?"

"There's two open speeder-type vehicles in the back – like jeeps. There were six windows in the back, but they were all blacked out. No number count on how many people are inside. I also couldn't see any weapons." He paused, and there was something in that hesitation that Rex could feel through the silence. After a moment, Echo went on. "But there was something in the back that looked like a mass grave."

"A mass grave? Are you sure?" the captain asked.

Echo nodded. "There's a pit back there, and it's not completely covered. You can see the bodies . . . parts of them."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Captain."

Rex grimaced beneath his helmet, but that was the extent to which he would allow himself to react. The presence of a mass grave, as abominable as its existence might be, formed no part of the mission he and his team had been sent to do. He would not permit himself to be distracted by his sensibilities.

"Well, nothing we can do about it," he said, sounding perhaps more callous than he'd intended. He took another glance at his headsup chronometer. "Twenty minutes. Let's get back into the woods."

The four men were about to break from their cover when the sound of an engine turned their attention back around. A pair of headlights appeared at the far end of the runway.

"Jesse, take Moog and start heading back. Radio Pitch and tell him what we've found. Echo and I will stay here and see what this is all about."

"Yes, Sir. Be careful, captain."

No sooner had Jesse and Moog left than two men emerged from the building, lethal silhouettes slung over their shoulders. They met the approaching vehicle, which turned out to be another one of the open speeders like the ones behind the building.

Four men got out of the vehicle.

The Pylottans were humanoid but with several distinguishing features that made them easy to identify. They were tall, most of them over two meters; stocky but not necessarily muscular; their skin was grey-toned and iridescent; and they all—male and female alike—had long, flowing hair that they dyed in any array of bright and vibrant colors and wore in a multitude of styles—nothing was considered too outrageous for them to attempt.

Three of the four men who got out of the vehicle were armed. The fourth was bound at the wrists, which were drawn behind his back. There was a good deal of agitated movement among the men, accentuated by the shrill interjections of the voices, raised in violent fervor. A long couple of minutes passed during which the three men from the jeep and the two from the building beat and harassed their prisoner before leading him around to the back of the building.

A single blast shot punched a hole in the night, which was quickly filled with the sound of detestable laughter.

"I hope these bastards are still laughing fifteen minutes from now," Echo whispered.

The men came from behind the building and stood gathered around the speeder, smoking some manner of weed and talking freely, as if they had not a care in the world.

Rex felt a perverse sense of satisfaction as he thought of what was about to befall these unsuspecting murderers. At the moment, they might be living a life that allowed for them to kill anyone who opposed them . . .

But all that was about to change.

The airfield would be taken, the military post wiped out, the Separatists driven from the moon, and the rightful leadership restored to its ruling position.

But that part of the mission seemed a million light years away. Right now, the mission consisted, as far as Rex was concerned, of marking the drop zone, reconnoitering the airfield, and having all pertinent information available when the task force hit the ground. This was what he had been tasked to do, and despite his longing to expand the breadth of that assignment, he reigned in his natural inclination and maintained a low profile from the relative safety of the wreckage.

"The drop is in progress, Sir." This was Pitch's voice, coming over Rex's helmet comm. "So far, unopposed. General Skywalker is on the ground."

Rex sent a silent acknowledgment signal.

The men around the speeder gave no indication of dispersing, and after a few minutes, two more men came from inside the building and joined them.

Rex spoke in a devious tone. "We could pick off all seven in one go."

"Just give the order, Sir," Echo replied.

Rex had to restrain himself from doing so. Instead, he said, "We'd better keep it down before we're spotted."

As he spoke, yet another man emerged from the building; but this one's manner was urgent, his excited gestures seeming to indicate a matter of some importance. At first, his audience around the speeder stood dumbfounded; but as they appeared to come to themselves and grasp what he was saying, their activity took on the glint of desperation.

The three that had come in the speeder departed, while the men who had come from inside the building went back in. Moments later, they re-emerged and went to the speeders. Some orders were shouted, and the speeders took off along a narrow dirt road that lead upstream. Rex and his team had noticed it on their way to the airfield and avoided it for fear of patrols.

A rumbling sound came from somewhere on the old flight line. Rex looked through his range finder once again and scowled. The doors to one of the hangars were opening, and a line of vehicles was emerging. Open-bed speeder trucks with armed men in the back. Regular speeders with at least a half dozen men perched wherever they could find a hold.

"Looks like our secret's out," Rex said, then keying his comm, he spoke quietly and succinctly. "General Skywalker, this is Captain Rex."

There was no reply.

Rex hailed again and was about to try a third time when a loud crackling emitted from the helmet transmitter. The voice of General Skywalker followed.

"Rex, what's your position?"

"We're at the airfield, hunkered down in the skeleton of some old flying thing. At least a dozen vehicles and minimum fifty armed men headed your direction along the river road. Will observe and relay any—"

Rex cut off abruptly as two more men came out of the building. They were both looking towards the burned-out wreckage. Rex motioned to Echo, and they pressed themselves flat against the charred metal surrounding them.

There was a shout from the building, then the pounding of purposeful footsteps heading towards the two clones' hiding place. Rex and Echo brought their weapons to the ready.

Suddenly, a return shout came from the direction of the woods beyond the aircraft, the woods between the airfield and the landing zone upstream. A short conversation in raised voices bounced back and forth between the two men who had come from the building and the two men, part of a patrol, who had emerged from the woods. The latter pair passed right by the wreckage without any hint of suspicion; then all four went to stand in front of the building where they appeared to be waiting for someone's arrival.

Rex let out a sigh of relief, and glancing to his left, he saw Echo's shoulders going up and down in a way that told him the trooper still had some Shinie jitters. But that was okay. The two clones waited with racing pulses and twitching muscles, only to discover with horror than an even larger contingent of combatants was now emerging from the second hangar.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Rex whispered. "We've got to get out of here. This place is getting too crowded."

"Roger that, Captain."

"We've got to go now, before those vehicles get any closer." He motioned Echo to move down towards the far end of the wreckage. "You go first. Stay low and I'll cover you."

Echo, known for his ability to follow orders, obeyed immediately and made it safely across the hundred meters to the woods just as the second group of vehicles arrived.

Inside the wood, he turned and waited for his captain; but back inside the ruins of the aircraft, Rex was stuck. He could not risk exposing his position in front of the now dozens of men unloading from the trucks at the cinder block building; and the fact that the men—these looked like soldiers, and not the scruffy things that had been guarding the airfield—the fact that they were dismounting here instead of heading towards the drop zone did not bode well. Apparently, these men were meant to stay and defend the airfield.

When a gesture was made towards the very place where Rex was hiding, he knew that his refuge was being pointed out as a defensible position. His suspicions were confirmed when a number of soldiers broke loose from the group and began heading in his direction.

Rex hardly had time to think. He drew both DC-17 pistols, lined up the infrared sites in his range-finder and targeted the fuel tank—or what he hoped was a fuel tank—on one of the speeder trucks. He fired off a single round, and the truck, with some of its live Pylottan cargo still inside, erupted into a ball of fire. Another precise hit send a second truck up in flames.

In the ensuing chaos, Rex broke from his position and ran for the woods. He didn't dare look behind him to see if he had been spotted or was being pursued. He had just entered the woods when he heard Echo's voice in a low, fierce hiss over his comm.

"Captain, over here! To your right!"

Rex joined him. "Let's get the hell out of here." He opened a comm and began talking at the same time as leading their retreat. "General Skywalker, do you read me?"

"I read you, Rex. What's happened?"

"The enemy is alerted to our presence. They're taking up defensive positions at the airfield."

"Jesse comm'd that he'd heard an explosion."

"Affirmative, General," Rex replied. "Our position was about to be found out. Two enemy vehicles out of action. Unknown number of enemy dead or injured."

"Acknowledged. We are beginning our advance. You and Echo are to go to ground. We don't want any friendly fire incidents," the general ordered.

"Roger that. We're going to ground. Over and out."

Rex turned to Echo. "This place will be crawling with our own lads soon. We've been ordered to stay put."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Captain," Echo deferred, his gaze turned in the direction from which they had just come. "Look."

Rex did not need the aid of any night-vision apparatus to see the line of men heading towards the wood at a brisk run.

"Damn!"

"I don't think they saw you running this way," Echo observed. "I think they just plan to use these woods as a part of their defense. But they know they have an enemy out here somewhere. They'll be looking in these woods."

"Let's go."

They moved deeper into the woods, both of them now wishing that the ground between the trees was not so open. There was little real cover, except for the trees themselves, which afforded a measure of scanty protection, and a few shallow depressions in the ground, widely spaced and at irregular intervals.

It was into one of these depressions that the two clones settled down to wait.

Rex once again contacted General Skywalker and passed on the information about the enemy hiding in the woods. As he shifted position to try and get lower to the ground, his hand came up against something smooth and hard in the ground beside him. Even through the glove, it felt peculiar. Brushing away the layer of dirt on top revealed a white, rounded object that, even before he had completely uncovered it, was identifiable as a humanoid skull.

"Oh, hell . . . I—I think we're sitting in another one of those mass graves," he breathed.

Echo began clearing away more of the loose dirt. "I think you're—frak!"

"What is—oh damn! Don't move."

Buried under the dirt and now partially exposed, lying directly between the two clones, was a grenade, the pin pulled three-quarters of the way out and attached by a piece of nylon to something—most likely a body part—still concealed beneath the surface.

The pit—the bodies—had been booby-trapped.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Repost: minor correction in that I used chess calls for the challenge. I changed it to Sabacc characters.**_

Chapter 3 Trees in the Wind

" _If you would know strength and patience, welcome to the company of trees."_

Hal Borland

* * *

"I guess no one's allowed to reclaim their dead," Echo remarked in a wry voice, swallowing down his nervousness and forcing into his manner a calm that he didn't feel. The kind of warfare he was used to involved blaster fire, disintegrations, forms of killing that were much neater than this. This was old style killing, and it was frightening.

"I want you to move away . . . very slowly," Rex ordered. "Careful, there may be more of them."

Echo started to ease back, coming to the sloped wall of the pit and here he stopped. The sound of voices – not clone voices – met his ears.

"They're coming," he whispered, craning his head around and trying to discern movement in the surrounding darkness.

"Can you see them?" Rex asked.

"No, Sir."

"Go on, then," Rex pressed, getting slowly to his feet. He took two steps backwards as Echo climbed out of the pit and came around to the opposite side, where he offered a hand to his captain and helped him out.

No sooner was Rex clear of the pit than the sound of distant blaster fire froze them both where they stood. They listened for a few seconds. The battle was on.

Behind them, in the direction of the airfield, they once again heard the voices of the Pylottans who had come into the woods behind them. But now, it sounded like they were moving away, back towards the airfield or the road that led towards the drop zone and the blaster fire.

Rex struggled with himself. He knew where the action was, and he knew where he wanted to be. Going to ground amounted to nothing more than playing it safe and hiding out until the real fighting was over. Such a course of action hardly seemed fitting for the captain of the 501st Legion. It was an insult to him, to his ego and his pride. And what would his men think if they learned that their captain had been skulking about, hiding, while they were engaged in battle? Intolerable.

"To hell with going to ground," he announced. "Let's go someplace where we can be useful."

They began moving quickly through the woods in the direction of the landing zone, but if Rex thought he was going to find the action, he was unaware that the action was about to find him. For he and Echo had gone no more than a half-kilometer through the woods and were passing by another one of the conspicuous death pits when commanding voices accosted them from both sides.

Two Pylottans dressed in the scruffy para-military uniforms not of the soldiers but of the men who'd been guarding the airfield, emerged from behind the trees. One took up a position in front of the two clones; the other behind. Surprisingly, they did not open fire, but gesticulated forcefully towards the ground, making incessant demands to which Rex and Echo reacted with composure, standing perfectly still and feigning noncomprehension, although it was perfectly clear that their captors wanted them to drop their weapons.

The fact that they had not killed the two clones outright told Rex more than he wanted to know. He and Echo would be taken prisoner and used as hostages, bargaining chips, or at the very least, propaganda.

At their captives' refusal to drop their arms, the militant standing in front of them fired off a burst from his weapon into the air. In accented Basic, he ordered, "Put gun down or is be killed."

Rex's mind was working furiously. He had no intention of allowing himself or Echo to be taken prisoner, tortured, and forced into the humiliation of making public statements against their own leaders, especially when he knew that their captivity would only end in death. These men would never agree to release any prisoners, although they might agree to return the corpses.

There were only two militants, and they both appeared strong and fit; plus, they were armed with formidable weaponry. The only chance would be to catch them off-guard. There could be no success in a direct refusal to cooperate, and Rex didn't believe in dying for the foolish notion of proving his manhood. He would rather live to fight another day.

"Do as he says—" Rex began, cutting off abruptly as another shot was fired into the air.

"No talk or is be killed!"

Rex set down his pistols, and Echo followed his lead.

The man in front of them motioned for them to put their hands up.

They complied.

From behind them, the other militant approached and reaching around in front of the two captives, removed packs, grenades, ammunition, helmets, everything that wasn't tied down. But it wasn't until Echo's arms were pulled behind him and he felt a cord being looped around his wrists that he drew away in a show of resistance, fully expecting to have his head blown off.

The militant in front stepped forward and jammed the muzzle of his weapon under Echo's chin.

"No move. I kill."

Echo did not move. He allowed his wrists to be drawn together, but short of the cord being tied off, he feigned a collapse, dropped to his knees and fell to the ground, hoping to every Force-friendly soul in existence, that his captain would take advantage of the diversion. A split-second later, he heard the discharge of the first man's weapon, followed by a grunt; and suddenly the man was lying on the ground next to him.

Echo struggled frantically to shake off his bindings. He could see the second militant drawing his weapon around in front of him, but before he could bring it to bear, Captain Rex was on top of him.

Rex had not been caught completely by surprise by Echo's move. Both clones had known instantly, upon the presentation of the bindings, that they would be little able to effect an escape with their hands bound. Any attempt at overthrowing their captors was going to have to take place before the bonds were secured. The moment Echo had 'collapsed', Rex had slammed his fist into the side of the first militant's head, dropping him instantly unconscious to the ground, which accidentally had set off his weapon. Then he had launched himself at the second.

Echo freed his wrists within seconds and, snatching up his confiscated blaster, he aimed one shot and killed the second militant.

"That was good thinking, Echo," Rex complimented. "You probably saved our skins."

Echo warmed at these words of praise. "I knew you were thinking the same thing, captain."

"This one . . . " Rex began, walking over to the stand by the man he'd knocked unconscious. He leaned over and retrieved his pistols, as well as the man's rifle and a long knife sheathed at his side. "I don't recall the general saying anything about bringing in prisoners."

Echo nodded his agreement. "And I'm not too hot on the idea of toting him around with us. It's dangerous enough out here as it is." He, too, took a blaster and a long knife from the man he'd just killed.

"We'll tie him up and leave him. If he's still alive when this is over, we'll let the security guys deal with him," Rex decided, reclaiming the rest of his equipment.

"Roger that, Sir."

Using the cord provided by their assailants, the two clones bound the man's wrists and ankles. They were working rapidly, single-mindedly, aware that any second they might be confronted by yet another unpleasant surprise. The sooner they got out of this area, the better.

A noise from the darkened woods drew Rex's head up.

"What's that?"

They both stopped what they were doing and listened.

Unmistakably, the sound came again. The sound of someone speaking their language. The voices were low but not guarded.

Rex could only make out an occasional word or phrase, but he did not need more to recognize that what he was hearing were the voices of his own brothers. He was stunned at the ease with which they were talking, and now he could even detect the sounds of subdued movement in the woods directly ahead.

"Sounds like the bloody circus coming to town," Echo whispered.

"We'd better let them know we're here," Rex replied. "They've already made their presence known to anyone who might be in the area. I don't think we could do more damage by calling out."

"Agreed, captain."

Rex, still without his helmet on, raised his voice a degree for the challenge.

"Houjix."

There was sudden and complete silence.

"Houjix!" Rex put forth again.

Still quiet.

Exasperated now, Rex blurt out, "For frick's sake, I'm your own captain! Now, answer the challenge! Houjix!"

After a brief hesitation, the response came, "To M'onnock two."

"There's two of us. Are we clear to advance?"

"Stand fast!"

Rex and Echo remained in place as a handful of figures materialized from the darkness.

Immediately, Rex saw what the problem had been. These were not 501st troopers; these were men from the 212th that had augmented the mission.

Stepping forward was a captain nicknamed Grommet. He was a veteran, one of the first clones to be produced by Kamino, a good man. Cody trusted him implicitly, and Rex was glad to see him.

"Rex, for kriff's sake, what are you doing out here?" Grommet asked.

"We're coming back from our recon mission," Rex replied. "We had a few adventures on the way. There's one lying there . . . and here's another, wrapped up as a present just for you. Now, we're just trying to stay out of the way as we head back to the drop zone. General Skywalker may need our help."

Echo smiled inwardly. Captain Rex staying out of the way was as likely as Coruscant reversing its rotation. Before the interruption by the two militants, Echo recalled that the captain had been leading them towards "someplace where we can be useful."

What had been the captain's words?

 _To hell with going to ground?_

"You can head straight through us. It's been clear the whole way," Grommet stated, sounding almost bored.

"Well, I can assure you, it's not cleared back towards the airfield. We were pursued into the woods. They seem to have broken off now and headed towards the sound of all the commotion. These two were likely part of a patrol that was coming back in and found more than they bargained for," Rex told him. "Where are you heading?"

"The airfield, following the line of the wood on this side of the runways. Commander Tano is coming up the other side. General Skywalker it taking center, along the river road," Grommet replied.

"You might want to consider making your progress a little more covert. We could hear you coming, and there may still be some of the enemy in the woods the way we came," Rex suggested.

Grommet nodded. "How many?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe a dozen."

"We'll keep an eye—"

A sudden _whoosh_ cut across Grommet's voice, followed by an explosion in the woods behind him. Rex knew the sound to be that of a rocket-propelled grenade. Another rush of sound preceded another explosion, and suddenly it seemed the gates of hell had opened. Clouds of dirt and debris wafted into the air, and the surrounding trees were engulfed in flames. Amidst the smoke and chaos, the agonized cries of injured men mingled with the shouted orders of Pylottan aggressors; and over all was the continual buzzing of blaster fire.

Chaos had broken loose again.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 Luck and Skill

" _Luck is a very thin wire between survival and disaster."_ Hunter Thompson

" _A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except for learning how to grow in rows."_ Doug Larson

* * *

The most immediate cover was the death pit, but Rex had not forgotten about the booby-traps.

"Echo!" he shouted, gripping the body of the man Echo had just killed. A wordless understanding arose between them, and Echo grabbed the man's feet. Together, they tossed him into the pit, turning away as the force of the explosion knocked them both to the ground.

Rex belly-crawled to the edge of the pit and slid down the side, surrounded by the results of his brilliant idea. He had not really thought about the aftermath of his actions when he had thrown the body into the pit; and he tried to ignore it now.

He could feel the thundering of footfalls moving through the woods in his direction, but his vision was obscured by the wall of smoke growing ever thicker around him. He peered over the lip of the pit and strained his eyes for any sign of movement. In the back of his mind, he was wondering where Echo had taken cover. He was tempted to call out to him, but that would give away his own position.

A ghostly image moved through the smoke in front of him. A few more steps brought the figure a bit closer to identification. Then, with movement faster than a Rishi eel, the figure jerked left and fired off a burst over the top of the pit.

Rex heard a man's voice, coming from behind him, raised in an abrupt cry of pain. The curses that followed were in Basic, and in a clone's voice. Rex raised his weapon.

The enemy was disappearing into the smoke again. It would not be a clear shot, but he took it anyway. An anguished scream let Rex know he had hit his mark. He climbed out of the pit and made his way to the injured trooper, one of Grommet's men, writhing and panting several yards away.

"Where are you hit?" Rex asked, coughing against the smoke and wondering what the hell had happened to his helmet.

"Shoulder," came the choked reply. "Can't breath—"

It was the smoke. Rex grabbed the soldier under the shoulders and began dragging him towards the pit, where the smoke was not quite as thick. As he moved, he caught a brief glance of another body, its details indistinguishable through the smoke, lying on the ground not too far from where the injured trooper had been lying.

Reaching the edge of the pit, he slid the clone down over the side and activated the filtering system in the trooper's helmet, seeing that the man was in too much pain to be thinking clearly enough to do it for himself.

Then he rushed back into the smoke which had grown so thick that he could not locate the other body until his foot made contact with it. Leaning down, he discovered that it was one of the enemy, and he felt angry that he had risked his life to come out for a dead militant. He got to his feet just as another figure, moving quickly and blindly in the smoke, came careening into him and knocking him flat on his back, the man's heavy weight crashing down on top of him.

He could make out, through the few inches of smoke between them, the surprised face of a man who was definitely not a clone, who was definitely a Pylottan, and who, in the next instant, had punched him twice in the face in rapid succession, before attempting to scramble to his feet.

Rex reached up, caught hold of the man's ankle and jerked him off his feet. The Pylottan fell face-first onto the ground directly beside him, and that's when Rex saw the smooth, round barrel of something automatic lying half-concealed under the man's prone body and pointed straight at him.

Rex rolled away blaster fire—strange, it didn't sound like a blaster-chewed up the ground where he'd been lying. Then, springing to his feet, he lunged at the man, pinning him underneath. Grabbing the Pyottan's head, he repeatedly slammed his face into the ground.

But the Pylottan was not easily subdued. Nor was he small or slightly built. Like all men of his species, he was tall and sound. Rex was 183 centimeters of uninterrupted muscle, a powerful fighter in hand-to-hand combat, fully aware of his own strengths and abilities. But he seemed to have come up against an enemy of whom the same could be said. He found himself being leveraged off his assailant's back by the man's sheer strength; and to his horror, he was being forced down onto the ground. If he stayed in close quarters, he would be pinned. He delivered a violent blow between the man's shoulders, scrabbled free and reached to draw his pistols.

Before he could get a single round off, his adversary rolled onto his side and fired off a blind shot that caught Rex in the left arm. Rex felt a white-hot pain shoot clear up to his shoulder. This was not the normal pain associated with blaster fire, but he had no time to contemplate it. The force of the impact spun him around, and both pistols went flying. It was only his desperation that gave him the presence of mind to realize he needed to get back into close contact to prevent any further use of the weapon. He waited until the man was directly over him, then he swept out his leg and brought his adversary crashing down on top of him. He wrapped his legs around the man's lower body.

For a moment, it seemed Rex's opponent had ceased struggling. Then, in the small space between their faces, the man held up a grenade. A perverse grin of triumphant evil gleamed in the Pylottan's eyes. The pin was out. Only his grip on the handle stopped them both from being torn into grotesque pieces. Once he released his hold, only five seconds would stand between life and death.

Rex's eyes went momentarily wide with stark fear.

On top of him, the man spoke in perfect Basic. "I am ready to die. You will go with me."

Rex had no intention of waiting to see if the man would carry out his threat. The captain's left hand was trapped between their bodies, in a very good vantage point. He knew he would have only one moment to put some distance between himself and his enemy; he only hoped their anatomy was similar with similar weaknesses. He thrust his hand into the other man's crotch and found what he was looking for.

The man's scream was piercing and his hold on Rex slackened just enough for the captain to bring his right hand up and clamp down over the militant's hand around the grenade.

The man fought with the crazed frenzy of a cornered animal. With his free hand, he felt something tucked into the belt at his opponent's side. It was the knife Rex had taken from the man he'd felled.

Rex turned his head just in time to deflect a slice aimed for his face that would have taken out his eye. Instead, it nicked his temple at the eyebrow, the small cut springing a torrent of blood that threatened to blind him. Ignoring the searing pain in his left arm, Rex reached up and clenched his fingers around the wrist of the knife-wielding hand; but already he could tell the muscle in the arm was not going to last long.

"For kriff's sake! I need help!" He shouted. "Somebody help me!"

As if on cue, Rex became aware of a presence moving in from his right, crawling along the ground in a stealthy manner; and he was not sure whether to feel relief or dread, until he heard a familiar voice.

"I can't get a clean shot!" It was Echo.

"Do something! I can't hold him!"

Echo was close to panic, for Rex and his assailant were so intertwined that he could not make out where one began and the other ended. He could not take a shot without the risk of hitting his captain, nor could he stand by and watch him be killed. He crawled across the last few meters and took hold of the man's wrist, the one brandishing the knife which Rex was barely managing to hold at bay. As soon as Echo had control of that arm, Rex let go and used both hands now to clasp over the grenade. He forced the man's arm onto the ground next to his head and tried to pry the grenade loose from his fingers, while at the same time, making sure the handle remained depressed. The man was still fighting against them. One abrupt move, one miniscule burst of strength, and they would all three go up in pieces.

"Kill him!" Rex ordered. "Kill him!"

Echo pinned the man's wrist to the ground with his knee, drew his blaster, put it to the man's skull and pulled the trigger.

Rex remained still for several seconds, almost as if to make sure the man was really dead, then he carefully slid the grenade out of the corpse's hand. He got slowly to his feet. He could not throw the thing very far, for in the swirling smoke, there was no telling where his own friendly forces might be.

"Echo, stay down!" he ordered, and although Echo was already lying on the ground, he pressed himself as flat as possible.

Rex tossed the grenade across the pit. A few seconds later, a harmless detonation shook up a storm of debris.

He looked down at his injured arm, just above the elbow. The armor had done him no good. It was cracked, a large chunk of it blown away. The body glove beneath was torn and there was blood everywhere. He could still move the arm, which was good news; and although it was painful, that was a secondary consideration. He could still hear the sounds of combat in the woods around him.

"Echo! Into the pit!" he ordered.

Echo made no move to follow.

"Echo! Let's go," Rex repeated, offering his hand. "Are you alright?"

"No, Sir," came the trembling reply.

Rex suppressed a frown. He was mildly disappointed with Echo's answer, for he expected his soldiers to be much tougher than this. It had been a harrowing experience—for both of them—but certainly nothing to cause this kind of squeamish, weak-kneed behavior. He would not berate Echo, but nor would he coddle him.

"Come on, now. Pull yourself together. This isn't over yet," he said sternly.

"I'm injured, Sir," Echo replied through gritted teeth.

This announcement caught Rex by surprise. He hadn't realized that Echo had been injured. He reached out and gripped his arm, feeling some kind of contact was in order. "Where?"

"My right leg . . . back of the thigh . . . "

Rex looked and found a large hole in the armor and a mess of traumatized flesh beneath. But it did not look like a blaster injury.

"Oh, damn . . . " Rex swore under his breath.

"That's why I couldn't get to you quicker." Echo grimaced, and a muffled groan escaped his lips. "It hurts pretty badly, Sir. I don't think I can walk."

"No, don't try to walk. I'll help you."

Rex got Echo into the pit with the other wounded soldier. Now, Rex's role switched from combatant to medic. He had two seriously injured men to look after. He was beginning to wish he'd paid more attention in the battle-field first-aid courses.

He activated his comm.

"General Skywalker."

A long silence ensued before the general's voice came through, and his voice was clipped. "Rex. What's your status?"

"I'm pinned down with two injured troopers."

"How serious?"

"One has an impact wound to the shoulder. The other has an impact would to the leg."

"What are your coordinates?"

Rex read off the coordinates from his GPS.

"Captain Grommet's company should be in your area."

"They are in my area! They're being shot at! It's one of their men who's injured!" Rex temporarily lost his radio discipline.

A pause, then, "Roger, that. Stay in place."

Rex snorted to himself, muttering under his breath. "Stay in place? Where in hell would I go with two injured men?"

For the next twenty minutes, Rex did the best he could with the materials at his disposal. Using make-shift bandages torn from the clothes of the dead enemy, he bound up his soldiers' wounds, then spent the rest of the time trying to make them more comfortable. At last, as the sounds of the fighting moved away, he received a hail on his comm.

Medical help was on the way.

And five minutes later, it arrived in the form of two field medics, one of them Kix, and a handful of stretcher-bearers.

Climbing out of the pit, Rex saw that the wounded men he'd been tending were not the only ones in need of assistance. At least half a dozen other soldiers were being examined and categorized by the severity of their injuries.

Rex did not call out to Kix, who was busily engaged over the body of a wounded 212th soldier who, judging from the spasms and unnatural movements of his limbs, might be beyond help but whose situation definitely preceded that of Rex's two injured men.

"Captain!"

Rex looked towards the sound of the voice and saw Jesse and Moog coming towards him.

"Jesse? Moog? What are you doing out here?"

"Captain?! By the Force, what's all this blood?" Jesse gasped, seeing the thick coat of red covering one side of his captain's face.

"Oh, it's just from a nick here . . . just a little thing. Nothing serious. Now, what are you two doing here?" Even blood-spattered and caked with dirt and ash, Rex rode his authority.

Jesse and Moog eyed their captain doubtfully, for he certainly looked worse than he was saying. But the only one who could ever prevail upon the captain was General Skywalker . . . and maybe Kix . . .

"We were back at the command post and heard you had run into some trouble. So we asked permission to come out with the medical crew. Where's Echo?" This from Jesse.

Rex motioned over his shoulder towards the pit directly behind him. "Down here. He's been hit in the leg. One of Grommet's men got hit in the shoulder. I've been watching over them."

Jesse and Moog jumped down into the pit.

"How you lads holding up?" Jesse asked, hunkering down and lightly patting first Echo's cheek, then repeating the action with the other trooper. It was a gesture of comfort, but he was also checking for signs of shock.

"We're okay, Jesse," Echo replied, sounding anything but okay as Grommet's trooper nodded his concurrence.

"Help is coming," Moog assured them.

"Have we taken the airfield?" Grommet's man asked in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

"They're still at it, but it won't be long," Jesse replied. "No more talking now. Save your strength, both of you."

When Kix appeared at the rim of the pit, Jesse cleared the way while Moog stayed to assist.

Both Rex and Jesse stood at the edge of the pit, watching Kix work. Neither one of them could fail to be impressed by the medic's acumen. Kix was an interesting character. Chronologically, he was the same age as Rex, but he had an unusual youthfulness and blitheness that was uncommon in his fellow clones. Quiet, unassuming, and absolutely professional, he was brilliant when it came to taking care of injured or ill soldiers. He examined, assessed, diagnosed, and made initial treatment at a pace that would dizzy most military practitioners. He could prescribe a treatment for athletes' foot one moment and apply a tourniquet the next. And he could guide a layman like Moog through complicated procedures without missing a beat. Everyone in the 501st realized how fortunate they were to have him as part of the battalion.

It was while Rex was admiring his medic's work that Jesse remarked, "Your arm looks bad, Sir. Are you alright?"

Rex glanced down at his arm and shrugged. "Eh, I think it's just a graze. I can still move it," Rex replied. "It smarts like hell." He changed gears. "Where's the rest of our advance team?"

"They're all back at the command post," Jesse replied, "Except for Fives and Pitch. They went out with Commander Tano's company. They were headed for the military base."

Rex nodded then opened a comm channel. "General Skywalker, this is Captain Rex."

After a brief pause, the general's voice came through, and he definitely sounded like he was in the thick of things. "Skywalker here."

"Friendlies have arrived at our position," Rex reported. "Do you require assistance?"

"Report back to the command post," came the harried response; and although it wasn't what Rex wanted to hear, he would not question his commanding officer's orders.

"Yes, Sir." Rex turned to cast a concerned glance down into the pit. "Kix?"

The medic looked up at the sound of his captain's voice. "Yes, Sir."

"Will they be alright?"

"Yes, Sir. They're in good hands. We'll take care of them."

"Make sure you do."

With that, he turned to Jesse. "Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 Winding Down

" _There are waters blown by changing wind to laughter  
And lit by the rich skies all day. And after,  
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance  
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white  
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,  
A width, a shining peace, under the night."_

 _The Dead_ by Rupert Brooke

By the time they arrived back at the command post on the edge of the drop zone, Rex was stunned at how crowded the place had become. It seemed that with the early rays of morning light, there had materialized a village a dingy prefabs and drab gray conex-style containers, swarming with clone troopers.

Through the milky haze of sunrise, a cordon of gunships could be seen lined up neatly behind the tents. These had brought in the second wave of troopers and the heavier equipment well after the initial assault had taken place. In some peculiar way, Rex found them to be a comforting sight – a way out, a way in, the ever-reliable war-horse that every infantry soldier trusted almost as much as he trusted the men flying the ungainly things.

Rex and Jesse made their way through the newly sprung prefab city, coming at last to a tent marked CP for command post. Inside they found a small concentration of fleet command personnel, including the intel specialist Kamat and Admiral Yularen's second-in-command, a Republic Navy captain—human non-clone—named Besserat. As a naval captain, he outranked an Army captain, and Rex approached him with the proper military deference. The two men knew each other quite well and had mutual respect.

"Excuse me, Captain Besserat."

"Rex," the man acknowledged. He turned, and taking in the captain's appearance, gave a small, expectant grin. "Glad to see you made it back in one piece. Hmph! you don't look like you've been rolling in the laurels."

"No, Sir," Rex replied. "How are things shaping up?"

"There's good news. General Skywalker's men have taken the airfield. He's asked for two more companies to come out and hold the place while he takes his company out to the base to help Commander Tano's group. We're marshaling Lima and Kilo companies at this moment."

"That _is_ good news," Rex agreed. "Commander Tano must be meeting with a lot of resistance."

"Considerable," Besserat replied. "The enemy is very well-armed, but not well organized." A pause. "I'm surprised you're not out there . . . though you look like you need medical assistance. You're quite a fright."

"My thoughts, exactly," Jesse said, clearing his throat. "Captain Rex, I may not be a medic, but you need to get taken care of." He looked to the fleet officer. "Is the medical station set up yet?"

"On the other side of the gunship line. I agree with him, Rex, you should go get patched up."

Rex grunted an indecipherable response then left with Jesse to head to the medical station. Thirty minutes later, he was sporting a bandage around his arm and a square patch of gauze over his left eye. He'd found it humorous that the medic treating him had asked if he'd broken his nose in the fighting.

" _No, I have Commander Cody to thank for that. I can barely get my helmet on over it."_

It was during this visit that word came that the military base had been taken by the combined forces of General Skywalker and Commander Tano. That was all Rex needed to hear to decide that it was now time to join his general—with or without permission; and so he and Jesse commandeered one of the speeders that had been taken during the fighting to secure the landing zone.

In twenty minutes they were at the military base.

Rex quickly found Commander Tano, who was in the process of assessing the losses. So far, there were only twelve confirmed dead from her company, although there were a number of injuries—some of them serious. Only two were unaccounted for.

Fives and Pitch.

After the bulk of the fighting had ended, the two had volunteered to check and clear an outlying building, a warehouse of some kind, just inside the post's boundaries, and they'd yet to return; nor had they reported in via comm. A party of four troopers sent out to the warehouse to search for them had found nothing. Ahsoka still had men out looking for them.

Rex did not take the news well, although he gave no very strong indication of his feelings. He simply turned on his heel and began walking away.

Jesse sidled up beside him. "Where are you going, Captain?"

"To see if I can find my men," Rex replied in a clipped tone.

"I'll go with you."

Neither man spoke as they headed towards the building Fives and Pitch had been instructed to clear. Jesse knew better than to try and initiate any kind of conversation about the fate of the two missing men. Or anything else, for that matter.

Rex, moving with purpose but little situational awareness, could not stop every possible negative scenario from entering his head, and he questioned every step that had led to this moment.

His own decision to put Fives on the team. Fives was still relatively new to the 501st, having only come on board four weeks ago. Yes, he was smart and quick and fearless – but he was inexperienced and perhaps a bit rash. _That only led to Rex berating himself for putting Echo on the team as well – also young, inexperienced, barely beyond Shinie, and now lying seriously injured on the battlefield._

Whoever made the decision to send them to assist Commander Tano's unit. They'd had their assignments before they'd even dropped into the zone. Once those tasks had been completed, they weren't supposed to be sent off to augment the units doing the bulk of the fighting. _Still, Rex would have done exactly what they'd done – volunteered to enter the fray. He could easily call to mind his own disappointment at being told by General Skywalker to report to the command post rather than join him in the middle of battle. His own example was to blame for his men's actions._

Commander Tano accepting their volunteering to go clear the building. Pitch might be an old hand at such missions, but Fives was not. And Fives' impetuous nature might not have been the best match for Pitch's more meticulous and regimented manner of doing things. _Rex could not accuse anyone else of being impetuous when he himself was the hallmark for last-second changes in plans._

The litany of misgivings did not stop playing in his head until they came to the building, where a number of troopers were posted outside. As they approached, Rex recognized Sixer, one of his veteran soldiers who came out to meet him. "Captain, you'll be glad to know Pitch and Fives are back."

Rex halted and stared dumbfounded for a moment. He was too relieved to speak. At last, he said, "Where are they?"

"Inside," Sixer replied. "They got back just a couple minutes ago—"

Rex burst through the door, followed the sound of voices down a narrow corridor, and turning a corner, entered a large hangar-type room; and here he came face-to-face with Pitch and Fives, both of whom were standing beside Commander Cody and two of his assigned lieutenants.

Rex hadn't even known that Cody was planet-side yet.

"Rex," Cody began, "Your timing is perfect. Pitch and Fives just got back from a bit of reconnaissance, and they made an important discovery."

Cody was being very politic in his choice of words, trying to sugarcoat the fact that, despite their _important discovery_ , the two troopers had dropped off radar and not told anyone of their whereabouts. Cody could be forgiving if he wanted to, but Rex was going to have none of it. And the moment he was alone with his two soldiers, he planned to let them know, in no uncertain terms, just how he felt about the matter.

"We didn't find anything in the warehouse, Captain," Pitch explained. "So we decided to go take a look at a shed that was close by. Turns out it was just a junk shed, but when Fives and I started poking around, we discovered a passageway hidden in the floor. We decided to follow it and see where it went." He looked at Fives with a satisfied grin.

Fives picked up the story. "The passageway led to a kind of . . . control center. There were a half dozen of the enemy inside, and we—well, we handled them. We looked at their computer systems, and they had been in the process of deleting files. It looked like there was still a lot of information – information about Separatist plans for this system; but we couldn't get a signal back to the surface, so we came back up to report what we'd found."

Rex knew the significance of this find, and he allowed his pride and approval to overrule his anger for a brief moment, long enough to commend them, "That's very good." Then to Cody. "Commander, do you have it from here?"

Cody nodded. He knew Rex wanted his two troopers back, and he knew why. He looked to Pitch and Fives. "Good job, both of you." Then to Rex, "Thanks for the loan."

* * *

Pitch and Fives stood at attention. This was not the first time either of them had received a dressing-down from their captain; but this was the first time it hurt.

The pain wasn't necessarily due to the fact that Captain Rex was angry, for they had seen him angry before. And it wasn't due to the harsh words or rancorous glare with which he now addressed them. It was because they knew they had made a true error in judgment.

They should have contacted Commander Tano or Commander Cody about the hidden passageway and requested permission to investigate. Instead, they had gone off on their own initiative without telling anyone what they were doing. That was something Pitch never would have thought of doing on his own; but Fives was another story. Since coming to the 501st, Fives had exhibited a bit of . . . well, independent thinking that occasionally bordered on insubordination. He never meant to stir up trouble, for he respected Captain Rex more than any other officer he'd ever met, clone or otherwise. But somehow, he could not help but put the need to test out his own theories ahead of his own reason. On top of that, he had a charisma that drew others into his schemes and plans.

Rex was certain that Fives had provided the impetus for this little unauthorized excursion.

When asked if they had anything to say for themselves, the two men managed a genuinely contrite apology. Disappointing their captain was something neither of them would have ever wanted to do.

"From now on, when you decide to be heroes, you'd damned well better check with me first. I don't like being made to worry," Rex chastised them; then seeing that they were already suffering from their own consciences, he concluded with a simple, "That's all."

The two troopers turned sharply and headed back towards the budding cantonment area.

Rex glanced at Jesse, who had been present for the reprimand. "They're certainly made in my image, aren't they? It's hard to tear them up for something I probably would have done myself."

Jesse grinned. "You didn't seem like you were having much difficulty giving them a piece of your mind, Sir."

"Yeah . . . I guess I'm pretty good at that, aren't I?" Rex quipped, returning the lieutenant's smile.

"One of the best, Sir," Jesse replied. "Because you never hold a grudge." He inclined his head. "And we know you care."

"Don't get emotional," Rex chuckled. "Come on, let's go check on our injured."

* * *

Once back on the drop zone, Fives headed straight for the medical tent, which by the time he got there, had expanded from a single prefab into a string of them. Entering the first and largest, he found dozens of troopers being treated for a variety of injuries, some clearly more critical than others.

Major Hypes, the battalion medical officer, was present; but most of the attending personnel were from the Resolute's medical staff. Still, Fives recognized two more medics as being from the 501st, which was fortunate to have its full complement of sixteen assigned field medics, although Fives figured that most of them were probably still out with their companies, securing the objective. 501st medics were expected to be a lot more than field-doctors; in combat, they were expected to hold their own, just like their brothers. They needed nerves that were perhaps a notch up from most other troopers, and they had to be strong as a gundark, given that their job required them to carry or drag the injured while exposed to enemy fire.

Fives approached the nearest 501st medic.

"Bango, I'm looking for Echo. The captain said he was brought in."

Bango looked up for a moment from the shoulder wound he was irrigating. "He's in the next can. Kix is with him."

"Thanks."

 _Can_ was slang for the conexes, so Fives passed through the door, from prefab to conex. This enclosure was smaller than the first, with only a handful of troopers being treated.

One of those troopers was Echo.

Fives approached without hesitation.

Echo was lying on his stomach, the armor removed from his left leg and the body glove cut away to expose an ugly patch of discolored, frayed and bloody skin on the back of his thigh.

Kix was plucking little pieces of something from the wound with a pair of micro-forceps. He was completely focused on what he was doing and did not notice Fives arrival until he was standing right next to him.

"That looks nasty," Fives said quietly. "Will he be okay?"

"Oh yeah," Kix replied with certainty. "Some muscle damage, but a few days in the bacta tank, and he'll be good as—"

"I told you, a bacta-patch will do just fine. I don't need to go into a tank."

The sound of Echo's voice surprised Fives.

"Causing problems again, I see, Echo?"

It was Kix who answered. "Yes, he is. He's been trying to tell me how to do my job." His voice, however, was not accusative or even annoyed. He was poking fun, an absolute necessity in a place such as a field hospital.

"You didn't give him the medical regs to look at, did you?" Fives asked, only half-joking.

Echo turned his head and regarded Fives from the corner of his eye. "Did you come here to aggravate me?"

Fives put his hand on Echo's armored shoulder. "I came here to check on you, brother," he replied earnestly. "I had to make sure you were going to be alright."

"I'll be okay," Echo said.

"What happened?" Fives asked.

"The captain and I got caught in the middle of a firefight, and I got hit. How did you know I was here?" Echo asked.

"Captain Rex told me." A pause. "After he chewed my ass."

"Again? What was it for this time?"

"Oh, I'll tell you later, when you're a little more . . . comfortable." He looked once again to Kix. "Is he staying here or going back to the ship?"

"They're getting the more critically wounded out first," Kix replied. "He'll probably go out tomorrow, or maybe the next day."

"That doesn't look like a blaster wound," Fives noted.

"It's not," Kix stated. "It's a projectile injury."

"Projectile? Like—like a bullet?"

Kix tilted his head. "No, not a bullet. More like buckshot, but with a lot greater impact velocity. Still, it would have been worse had it been a bullet. With this, there's a lot of trauma to the epidermis, but the muscle was only slightly damaged."

Fives lowered his voice. "He seems kind of . . . woozy. Did you give him something?"

"Painkiller . . ." He leaned close and whispered with a sideways grin. "And a mild sedative. He's a little uptight."

A fond smile spread across Fives' face.

"That's putting it mildly. One of our squad mates used to say he'd been left in his growth jar too long," he recounted before quickly pushing down the wistful memory of Cut-up, a brother and squad mate whose frivolous and jokester personality Fives had come to appreciate much too late. After all, clones weren't bred to be funny. They were bred to be serious. All the time. What place did humor have . . .

 _No._

No, he would not entertain those memories. He wouldn't revisit the guilt of having once thought himself superior to the rest of Domino Squad. He'd been determined to leave the melancholy behind, and he'd thought that his induction into the 501st had been enough to do it.

But the memory of what he'd lost on the Rishi moon was still too fresh.

For he'd lost more than just brothers. He'd lost the sense of belonging and family that had been a part of Domino Squad. True, it may have been a quarrelsome and fractured family to a greater or lesser extent; but ultimately, they had come to realize that they were bound by something stronger than genetics.

But now, all that remained . . .

Just him and Echo.

He forcefully redirected his thoughts to the fact that Echo was going to be alright. The two remaining members of Domino Squad were still together. That mattered more than the haunts of the past.

"Looks like you're in good hands, buddy," he said, patting Echo's arm. "I'll come find you later on."

"Where are you off to?" Echo asked, his voice starting to grow even more muffled and slurred.

"Going out on patrol at 1600."

"Be careful."

"Don't worry about me. You just make sure you get some rest. And try to just let Kix do his job, eh, Doctor Echo?"

* * *

"You always end up right in the middle of things, don't you, Captain?"

It was not a question as much as a statement of the facts.

"Not by choice, Sir," Rex replied. He kept his eyes trained on the nose art of the nearest gunship. It was a voluptuous human woman, skimpily dressed, hair flowing, head thrown back, and . . . riding a missile. She looked like she was having way too much fun.

Rex knit his brow. He'd have to tell Cody that the troopers were getting a little too . . . hmm, distracted? The 212th pilots were the brains and artistic ability behind the nose art. Maybe Cody wasn't keeping them busy enough. Clearly, their thoughts were straying into areas that only interfered with the focus and cohesion of a military unit.

Still, it was a nice bit of artwork, and the woman was pretty-

"Not by choice," General Skywalker interrupted his thoughts, his voice carrying a skeptical tone. "Your team's mission was to mark the landing zone and perform limited reconnaissance."

Rex continued to stare at the nose art. His stance was rigid, although he had not been put at attention. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead and neck.

" _It's damned hot out here . . . I wish he'd just ream me and get it overwith."_ But his only response was a professional, "That's what we did, General."

"And you've got Echo, seriously injured and sidelined, to show for it," General Skywalker put forth.

Rex said nothing.

"How did Echo get injured?"

"We were coming back from reconning the airfield when we ran into Captain Grommet and his men. While we were telling them what we'd found, the enemy attacked."

"And instead of letting Grommet's men handle it, you decided to stick around and engage the enemy," the general stated.

"It seemed the responsible thing to do."

Anakin eyed him knowingly. "You just wanted to be in the fight."

"Sir, I . . . " Rex hesitated. He could be honest. "I hate recon missions. You know I've always hated recon missions. Blasting the enemy . . . that's what I know best."

"And I understand you left a trail of dead Pylottans behind you."

"Thank you, Sir."

"It wasn't meant as a compliment."

"No, Sir."

Anakin blew his breath out and shook his head. "For crying out loud, Rex, would you ease up a bit?" A pause. "Look, I don't expect my first-in-command to be timid and go hiding from the enemy. You did right. You did well. I would have been happier if Echo hadn't been injured. I at least thought the recon team would come away without any casualties. And you don't look like you came through it unscathed. How's the arm?"

"It's a bit sore, but I can move it just fine. Kix stopped just short of ordering me to take some time off."

"That might be the only way to keep you out of trouble."

The corner of Rex's mouth lifted slightly. "Just following the lead of my commanding officer. Trouble seems to follow me."

Anakin could not help feel that swell of pride again. Rex really was taking on more and more of his own qualities – for better or worse.

"Which makes it easier, since you're out there looking for it, anyway," he replied. "Fortunately, you have me to look out for you."

"Yes, Sir; although I think it's the other way around."

The general clapped his clone captain on the shoulder. "Never a dull moment, Rex."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 Squad Mates

" _We spake of many a vanished scene,  
Of what we once had thought and said,  
Of what had been, and might have been,  
And who was changed and who was dead."_

 _The Fire of Driftwood –_ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

"We'll see you in four days." Anakin stood just outside the command post. "The transition team arrives in the next day or two, and once you've got everything handed over to them, you're to leave here immediately."

Cody and Rex nodded in unison.

Obiwan added, "If you need more time, contact us. We want to make sure this transition goes smoothly, or we could lose the support of Orator Deccat."

Beside Anakin, Ahsoka thought she detected a subtle scowl. Her master's next words confirmed it.

"But don't forget, you're here only to help the transition team settle in; not to stay on and act as their lackeys," Anakin said. "And you're not military advisors, either. The diplomatic team is bringing their own advisors." He looked pointedly at Rex. "I want you back on the Resolute in five days, six at the latest. The battalion can't afford to have you out here for weeks _directing traffic_."

"Understood, Sir."

Anakin grinned in the way of man who has stumbled upon a secret and knows how to use it to his advantage. "Besides, I know how much you hate this kind of mission. I trust you'll want to get out of here as soon as possible."

Rex thought the general was too clever by far.

"Yes, Sir."

Obiwan only shook his head. "Cody, make sure the team stays until the _mission is complete_."

"Yes, General Kenobi."

The three Jedi turned and started heading for the awaiting gunship that would take them to the Resolute, which had entered the atmosphere two days ago, after the airfield and the military base had been declared secure.

Ahsoka wasted no time. "Master, are you sure you wouldn't like me to stay here with them?"

"I think Rex and Cody can handle this themselves, Ahsoka," Anakin replied.

"Then why were you so persistent about them leaving as soon as possible?" she asked.

Obiwan chimed in with interest. "My thoughts, exactly. _Lackeys?_ Honestly, Anakin."

"Look, I've seen these diplomatic missions in action before. They may bring their own trooper detail with them, but they won't hesitate to make use of any other military assets they find hanging around. I don't want to get a request from the transition team leader, asking for my soldiers to be detailed to their operations," Anakin explained. "That's why I put Rex in charge of the 501st's contingent. I know _he_ won't volunteer to stay here any longer than he has to. And he'll resist any request they have for our troopers to stay."

"That may be, but _Cody_ is the team commander," Obiwan pointed out.

A small crinkle belied the humor Anakin found in this statement. He knew Cody and his reputation for strict adherence to the rules. But he also knew that Cody—like Rex—was a combatant, at his best and most at home when on the battlefield. This sort of mission Cody would fulfill because it was his duty; and he would excel at it, just as he exceled at every undertaking.

But if Obiwan thought that his commander was immune to the pressure Rex could bring to bear, then that was simply wishful thinking. Rex could make any idea sound plausible, no matter how ridiculous; and because Cody trusted him, that usually led to Rex's ideas prevailing. That was not to say that Cody was easily influenced, for that was not the case. Rather, Cody knew that Rex was smart, an ingenious thinker who could always be counted on to find an alternative to failure.

Still, Cody also recognized that Rex was, at times, unduly moved by his emotions and the bond he had with his men. There had been times when Rex's discipline had been . . . well, lacking in firmness and severity. Still, the 501st was Rex's battalion, and Cody would not want to go into battle beside any other unit in the entire GAR*.

"I wouldn't mind staying, Master," Ahsoka pressed. "It would be a good experience for me."

Anakin looked askance at his padawan; and despite Ahsoka's earnest expression, he wasn't fooled for a second.

Almost immediately after Ahsoka's assignment as his padawan, Anakin had noted what seemed to be a partiality on the Togruta's part. Over the months, that partiality had blossomed into an infatuation, which—to her credit—Ahsoka kept mostly discreet. The fact that it was Rex who was the object of that infatuation tended to make the situation rather humorous in Anakin's eyes; for it remained unknown whether Rex was aware of the padawan's feelings or not. He carried on as a soldier must, steadily and without distraction. And if he didn't notice Ahsoka's admiring eyes and the occasional longing gaze, then that was probably for the best. As it was, Rex treated Ahsoka like he treated any other commanding officer – with respect and professional decorum.

"Not this time, Ahsoka," Anakin replied.

"Yes, Master." Her disappointment was only mildly papable.

They stepped aboard the gunship.

"JP, we're ready," Obiwan commed the pilot.

A moment later, the gunship was airborne and on its way.

* * *

"What the—"

Rex cut himself off and stood staring in shock, which was quickly replaced with anger—an anger he managed to temper with restraint.

"Explain this," he said in as calm a voice as he could muster.

"Oh, uh, Sir—we—we—eh . . . I, uh . . . " Fives stammered and stumbled through a non-explanation, then suddenly recovering his wits, he blurted out, "Echo didn't make it onto the last medical transport."

"Why not?" Rex had mastered the scowl, and he used it now.

"We, uh, uh, well, I—" Fives had only cast about a few splutters before Rex grew impatient.

"Where's Kix? Kix!" he bellowed. "Get in here!"

Kix came skittering in from the adjacent prefab. "Yes, Captain!"

"Why is Echo still here?"

A perplexed look crossed the medic's face. "I thought that . . . " He glanced towards Fives and Echo, then apparently not seeing what he'd hoped to see there, he concluded, "I thought this had been cleared with you, Sir. I'm sorry. I should have come to you directly myself."

"Who made the decision for him to stay here?" Rex demanded.

"I did, Sir," Kix replied.

"Then let me rephrase the question," the captain glowered. "Whose _idea_ was it for him to stay here?"

"It was mine, Sir," Fives spoke up.

"And mine," Echo added.

Rex drew a deep breath in an attempt to maintain his calm, such as it was. "Kix, you can go back to what you were doing."

The moment the medic was gone, Rex pierced both men with a glare that at least one of them had seen many times already.

"Let's hear it."

Fives opened his mouth to begin, but it was Echo who beat him to it.

"Captain, I didn't want to go back. I knew that as soon as I got to the Resolute, they'd send me to the medical frigate to convalesce and . . . and if the fleet moved out without me, it could be months before I'd catch up with them again. Or they might reassign me to another unit," came the jumbled yet clearly honest explanation. "I didn't want to take the chance of—of being separated from Fives." A pause. "We're all that's left of Domino Squad. We might be all that's left of our batchers, for all we know. I didn't want to risk being separated."

Some part of Rex relaxed a bit. This wasn't as horrendous an explanation as he'd been expecting.

"Okay, so that explains why. Now, I want to know how," he said.

Now, Fives had his turn. "I agreed with Echo," he began. "So, I . . . I went to Kix and told him I'd . . ." He let his head drop and the words rolled out unimpeded. "I told him I'd spoken to you, and you'd agreed to let Echo stay here and be treated in the field hospital until we all left." He tried to mitigate his actions, but even so, his voice contained a note of self-recrimination. "I asked him first if he thought it would be safe for Echo to stay here a few more days. I _did_ ask him if that would have a negative impact on his condition. He said that it wouldn't matter, that the injury was responding well to treatment, and—"

"Don't try and pin this on Kix," Rex warned.

"I'm not trying to do that, Sir," Fives replied, and there was something desperate in his manner. "Kix had no reason to think I was lying to him. I just wanted to show you that I never would have done this if I'd thought it would jeopardize Echo's recovery."

A long silence ensued. Then, at last, Rex looked at Echo. "I'll talk to you about this later." To Fives, "Come with me."

As soon as they were out of earshot, Rex stopped and faced Fives squarely.

"You messed up," he said pointedly. "You put Echo's health at risk, you lied to Kix, and you did all this without speaking to me first."

"I was going to come to you, Sir. I just—I had to do it or else they would have sent Echo out on one of the transports," Fives replied, knowing it was a weak explanation.

"So, you put your own wants ahead of Echo's well-being—"

"Echo wanted this, too, Sir," Five insisted. "We just—we didn't want to be separated."

"I understand that, Fives, and . . . I appreciate your concern, but I need you to listen to me, and listen good," Rex said. "I brought you and Echo into this battalion because you both impressed me on the Rishi Moon. I saw a lot to admire in you two, but there are a few things that need correcting. In your case, it's your headstrong attitude of making your own decisions without any regard to the chain-of-command. You've come awfully close to crossing the line. On this mission alone, you've done your own thing twice. From now on, you need to follow orders."

"Yes, Captain," Fives replied, and he sounded contrite. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble."

Rex sighed. He was afraid he was already becoming too much of a pushover. "Look Fives, I know you and Echo are the only ones left from your squad. And I know you want to stay together." A pause. "But I want you to understand . . . you have to say good-bye sometime. We all do."

Fives was silent.

"You're one of the most promising troopers I've ever had," Rex went on. "Just reign in some of that . . . maverick attitude."

"Yes, Captain."

Rex felt like he wanted to say more, but what?

Maybe it was better to just leave things where they were.

"Dismissed," the captain said. He waited until Fives had walked away, then he headed for the underground bunker. He had rounds to make.

* * *

"Are you mad?"

Echo asked the question cautiously. Kix was changing the bacta patch on his leg; and other than the minimum necessary, the medic had not said a word since re-entering the room after Captain Rex's visit.

His answer now was curt. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry," Echo apologized. "I didn't know what was going on."

Kix spoke in an even, neutral tone. "I would have told Rex it was okay for you to stay here a few days until we all shipped out. I told Fives as much. I don't know why he didn't just ask me to talk to the captain. All of this could have been avoided."

Echo frowned.

"I know it's only been four weeks, but Fives needs to learn to trust us," Kix went on. "We're all part of the same team. You and Fives are part of the 501st now. We look out for each other. We do what's best for each other. I happen to agree that it's best for you to be with Fives. He seems to need . . . a restraining hand. But the way he went about this . . . I don't blame Rex for being angry."

"Neither do I," Echo agreed. "But don't be too hard on Fives. He took the loss of our brothers really hard. He's just afraid something will happen to me. I'm all he has left."

Kix shook his head. "He has an entire battalion of brothers. He just needs to work on fitting in, getting to be a part of us. He's not the only who's lost batchers. There's only 12 of mine left. The captain doesn't have a single batcher in this unit. He doesn't even know how many of his are still alive. When he came here to command the 501st, he left all of them behind. We became his family." A pause. "You and Fives need to let us become _your_ family. You seem to be adjusting well enough. Fives needs a little help."

"He's a good man," Echo attested. "A good brother. He just takes things very . . . personally." He rolled carefully onto his side with Kix's assistance. "In Domino Squad, he never—he never took the same kind of ribbing that the rest of us did, so he never learned how to deal with . . . that kind of adversity. I mean, I was yelled at and made fun of every day by my brothers for the way I repeated orders and quoted the regs. That's how I got my name."

Kix simpered. "I sort of figured that out."

Echo let a moment of silence go by before asking, "How did you get your name?"

Kix's smirk turned into a smile. "I have Hardcase to thank for that. He's one of my batchers, one of my squad mates. Way back on Kamino when we were cadets, he got pretty badly banged up on a training mission, and he needed something to keep him going or else we would have failed. I'm sure you remember what it was like: leave a man behind, and your entire squad failed. So, I gave him a stimulant that, uh, did the job for him." He chuckled quietly. "And then some. After that, any time someone got hurt, they wanted the same sort of 'kick' that I'd given Hardcase. Needless to say, that sort of drug is only warranted under certain conditions, but the name stuck." A pause. "And I like it."

Echo maneuvered into a sitting position in the bed, offering up his shoulder for an injection. "You have an interesting look. I've been meaning to ask you about it since joining the battalion, but I never really had the chance until now."

"What do you want to know?" Kix asked.

"A good droid is a dead droid. No argument there," Echo replied, quoting the saying in Aurebesh that Kix had tattooed on the side of his head. "Your . . . design is a little wild, not what I'd expect from a medic."

Now Kix beamed with humor. "Because medics are supposed to be squeaky clean and conservative in appearance."

Echo smiled back. "Something like that. And you look like you belong with a pirate band or some other gang of miscreants."

This made Kix laugh heartily. "A far cry from it, I can assure you. I owe this to my squad-mates, as well."

"Little too much to drink one night? They talked you into something crazy?" Echo presumed.

"Not exactly. Shortly after coming onto active duty, me and my squad mates made a bet – a sober bet," Kix explained. "The first one to get to 100 confirmed kills would never have to pay for another drink as long as any other squad mates were alive. The last one to get 100 would have to accept whatever sentence the others decided upon. It was a stupid bet. I should have suggested the first one to reach 100 saves, but that wouldn't have been fair either. Needless to say, I finished last. As a medic, you spend more time trying to save the injured than blasting the enemy. Anyway, it was Pitch who suggested some kind of crazy buzz, and Jesse, Hardcase, and Top all agreed. So, we all went one day, and they pretty much told the barber what to do and then hurried me off to get tattooed before I could reconsider – because the truth is I'm not a wild man, although the words were my idea." He shrugged. "It's kind of grown on me."

"It _is_ wild, but it seems to suit you," Echo agreed, adding quickly with a turn of his countenance, "From what I've seen so far." After several seconds, he gave into his curiosity. "I've met Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch. But you mentioned someone named Top. I've never seen him. Is he . . . " He hesitated, not sure how direct he should be.

"At ARC school," Kix filled in the query. "He's due back in about two weeks."

"ARC school?" Echo's voice was filled with wistful admiration.

"The captain sends his best men," Kix replied. "Although some keep refusing to go . . . "

"Who would refuse ARC training?" Echo was incredulous.

"Jesse, for one," Kix said, shaking his head.

"You?"

Kix shook his head. "The captain's never recommended me. I'm not sure he ever would. I'm not cut from the same cloth as guys like Jesse and Top—"

"We're all cut from the same cloth," Echo put forth.

"Once you meet Flat Top, you'll discover that that just isn't true," Kix said with certainty. "We may all have the same genetic template, but some of us are more skilled at combat than others. Top is . . . I don't even know how to describe him. He and Hardcase are like this." He held his index and middle fingers tight together. "I think they're in a competition to show the captain which one is more of a threat to the enemy." A look of grateful recollection came into his eye. "They've both saved my neck more times than I can count. If it weren't for them, we'd have had to leave a lot of injured men on the battlefield. They always covered me when I went out to bring someone in, and they did it without a thought for themselves. So, believe me, I know about the bond between squad-mates."

"All your squad-mates are still alive, then?"

"Yeah." A thoughtful pause. "We've lost a lot of men in the 501st, but somehow, the five of us are still here." An unreadable expression settled on his face. "I don't how I would react if something were to happen to one of them. I depend on them in a lot of ways."

Echo sensed there was something arcane behind Kix's words, but he didn't feel as if it were his place to inquire. He was still too new to invite himself into an intimate conversation.

He fell back on simple kindness.

That kindness was one of Echo's greatest strengths. He was a benevolent soul, much more so than many of his fellow clones. "Then you're lucky that they're all still alive. And I look forward to meeting Top."

The closed look on Kix's face opened into one of knowing humor. "I guarantee you, that's a meeting you'll never forget."

Full disclosure: This is not a Rex-Ahsoka love story, so don't get your hopes up. There are references to her feelings for him, but no romance. Sorry!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 Shadow Track

" _The flying boat spotted Bismark at 1030 and has been shadowing her ever since using cloud cover."_

First Sea Lord, _Sink the Bismark_

* * *

The transition team arrived two days after the Jedi had left. Comprised partly of diplomats and government types, the rest of the contingent was made up of troopers from the Coruscant Guard and military advisors.

For a man who'd wanted to remain neutral, Orator Deccat was inviting a lot of Republic personnel and hardware into his sphere.

As for Cody and Rex and their team, they were aiming to head out as soon as the handover was complete. Their team was 22 men strong, including themselves, and they had quite a bit of work to do to turn over the camp to the new arrivals.

Early in the morning the day after the transition team arrived, Cody was doing an inventory of the equipment they'd be taking back with them. The loadmaster, a clone named Puzzle, was at his elbow.

"They should have left us with a larger transport," Puzzle noted, feeding each item into his data pad and letting the automatic calculator determine how much space was necessary and what the weight distribution would be to ensure safe operation of the transport. He would go back later and recheck the calculations by hand – not because he was distrustful of such programs, but because he was more confident in his own abilities.

"Agreed, but it's too late to worry about that now," Cody replied. "We need to get as much onboard as possible and get on our way. It already looks like the—oh, here's comes Secretary Gimalk." The dread in his voice was unmistakable.

Gilmal Gimalk was the head of the transition team, and he was a difficult customer. As a member of the Republic Office of State, he felt his own importance and made sure everyone else felt it, too. He was curt, short-tempered, and had little patience where matters of security were involved. Cody truly pitied the members of the Coruscant guard who had the unfortunate assignment of providing protection for the transition team.

"Commander, a word with you," the secretary said, holding up a well-fleshed finger.

"Yes, Sir."

"We need assistance making that building into a livable facility," Gimalk stating, referring to the cinderblock structure at the end of the runways. "Send your men over to help, will you?"

"I'm afraid all my men are busy with other tasks at the moment, Secretary," Cody replied with the proper amount of deference. "I may be able to send a few men later this evening."

"Oh, surely you can do better than that," Gimalk sniffed. "We haven't a decent place to sleep. Last night, we were sleeping on mats on the floors. The place looks like it hasn't been lived in for decades."

Cody thought about how many times he and his brothers had slept on the floor, on the ground, cramped inside a military vehicle, whenever and wherever they could. But he curbed his response.

"I think some of the enemy were living in there, but not many. Other than that, you're right. It probably hasn't been lived in for a long time," he said. "As I said, I'll be glad to send some men when they're available, but right now we have other missions to accomplish."

Puzzle interjected. "Commander, if you'll excuse me, I need to finish my calculations."

"Carry on," Cody replied, wishing he could go with him.

But he had to stay and listen to the secretary's new round of requests, ranging from moving supplies to setting up communications to, of all things, helping out in the base's commandeered dining facility. To his credit, Cody's professional demeanor never wavered, but he was running out of polite ways to decline.

And then deliverance came in the form of one of Rex's troopers who trotted up and saluted smartly. "Excuse me, Commander."

"Ajax, what is it?"

"Moog's found something and he wants you and Captain Rex to come take a look," Ajax announced.

Cody welcomed the interruption. "Excuse me, Secretary. I'd better go see what this is all about."

He did not wait for an acknowledgment before starting to walk away. "Perfect timing, Ajax."

"Glad I could be of service, Commander," Ajax replied smartly.

Entering the secret bunker, they found Rex already there, standing beside Jesse, leaning over Moog's shoulder.

"Moog was just starting to tell us what they've found," Rex announced.

Cody joined them. "Let's hear it."

"We started going through these files," Moog began. "These consoles are filled with more files than we could ever get through in a few days. But I think these will be of interest to the Republic. These files are encrypted with a code I'm not familiar with. You're going to need intel folks to crack this. But . . . " His voice and manner became excited. "These files were associated, and they're under a code intel cracked only a few days before we came here. Look at this."

Cody, Rex and Jesse all leaned over the console and looked at the files Moog had pulled up on the screen.

"What are we looking at?" Cody asked.

"These comms are all dealing with the same thing, but we can't tell what it is, because they're using a code name. See this: 2D parts . . . 2D parts . . . 2D parts. These are written as if they're talking about regular droid replacement parts, but these references keep recurring, and why encrypt droid parts?" Moog explained. "And here . . . this looks like a research and development report."

"You think they're building a new weapon?" Cody asked.

"Or a new kind of droid?" Rex posed.

"I don't know, I can't tell," Moog replied. "That's what the intel guys need to decipher. This needs to get to sector headquarters. I think all the consoles need to go."

"I agree," Cody nodded. "Major Kamat will probably want to see all this. Start securing these consoles for transport. We're going to be off-planet by 2100 hours the day after tomorrow."

Rex looked at Cody with a pleasantly surprised expression. "That soon?"

Cody cleared his throat. "I just ran into Secretary Gimalk. It can't be soon enough."

"I understand."

The commander took Rex by the elbow and led him aside. "Get your men moving on the turnover. If we stay here too long, I may end up . . . " He hesitated, and when he finished the sentence, it was obvious that he'd decided upon a more diplomatic ending, " . . . disappointing General Kenobi. I hate political appointees."

Rex beamed. "I'm all for that. We can probably get off-world even faster."

"No need. Two days will do." Cody grimaced. "Just don't be surprised if I'm not fit for decent company after dealing with that man."

Rex slapped him on the shoulder. "I won't hold it against you."

* * *

Two days later.

"Everyone's onboard, commander. All equipment loaded and secured. We're ready for departure." This report came from a 212th clone named Little Ride, a taciturn, responsible man whose appearance was like that of so many clones, a man who felt no call to look different from the vast majority of his brothers. Yet, he was distinguishable by his manner – soft-spoken, almost poetic, kind-hearted. Like all clones, he knew how to fight. He was good at it, and he definitely valued his role in supporting the Republic's war effort. But he was something of a gentle soul off the battlefield. Cody often considered that he would have made a great instructor; but Little Ride preferred to remain with his batchers and serve on the front lines.

"Thanks, LR," the commander acknowledged. "Go tell Three Point we're ready to get underway."

"Yes, Sir."

Five minutes later, the transport lifted off.

It was going to be a long ride. Shortly after the Jedi had returned to the destroyer, the Resolute had been called away, clear out of the system. Count Dooku's fleet had been spotted near Florum, and Generals Skywalker and Kenobi were being called upon to carry out a special mission of unknown purpose. The entire Resolute battle group had been called away, and the transport carrying Cody's team would have to catch up with them at their new operating location. The question had arisen as to whether or not Cody's team should take the consoles directly to sector headquarters, or even Coruscant. Ultimately, it was decided that the team would bring the consoles to the Resolute, which would then dispatch another transport to take them to wherever the high command decided they should go – a question still being debated.

The journey to the Resolute meant roughly three standard rotations traveling at light speed.

Piloting the transport was one of Cody's best men. Three Point was the top heavies pilot in the 212th, a veteran of the battalion since day one. He wasn't a fighter pilot. He had no desire to fly the sleeks; his love was for coaxing the best performance out of the fleet of transports, the bigger, bulkier, unwieldy "crates" that had none of the glamor of the fighters but all the challenge of being an easier target. He sported a shaved head with the silhouette of a frigate tattooed on the right side of his scalp. He had a series of blue dots and dashes tattooed across the top of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, an old intel code marker that spelled out his name.

Beside him in the co-pilot's seat, Zinger—also 212th— was inputting the long string of coordinates for the jump to hyperspace. Like his crewmate, Puzzle, Zinger preferred to check the computer's calculations against his own work.

In the front passenger bay, a web bed had been set up for Echo's comfort, and Kix was making sure he was settled in for the trip. The wound on his thigh was healing well, but he still could not put any weight on the leg. He'd waved off any painkillers, preferring the discomfort to the fuzzy head.

"Just don't try to get up and move around without help," Kix ordered.

"I won't," Echo promised.

After Kix moved off, Fives joined his friend. "You've got the best seat on this bucket."

"After three days, I don't think any seat will be comfortable," Echo noted. After a brief pause, he began a new subject. "The captain looks irritated."

"I think it's because the general was called away on a mission, and the captain wanted to be part of it," Fives replied. "I kind of get the feeling he hates having General Skywalker out of his sight."

Echo grinned. "Maybe."

At the partial bulkhead that separated the fore bay from the middle bay, Rex and Cody were deep in discussion about something or other. So, when their wrist comms buzzed and began blinking, they both took a little longer than usual to answer. And Rex, seeing they were being comm'd by the same person, deferred to Cody, as the senior ranking officer, to answer.

"Cody here. What is it, Moog?"

"Sir, you and Captain Rex need to come up here. We're seeing something unusual."

Both men headed to the bridge, which was one level up from the cargo bays, accessible by a steeply inclined set of steel steps.

Moog and Little Ride were looking at one of the ship's scanners.

"Every now and then, a track shows up here behind us," Moog announced. "We keep trying to get a capture so we can make a stretch and identify it, but it's never in range long enough."

"Are you sure it isn't a ghost track? An echo?" Cody asked.

"No, Sir, we're not sure," Moog answered. "We can't get a lock on it long enough to tell."

"These new long-range scanners are supposed to have eliminated ghost tracks," Little Ride noted. "And we've been tracking this for the last 15 minutes. Even the old equipment would have self-corrected a ghost by now."

"What do you think it is, then?" Cody asked.

"I think someone is following us, Commander."

Cody glanced at Rex. They both knew the next logical step.

"Full stop?" Rex asked as a manner of confirmation.

Cody nodded, then to Moog and LR, "Get ready to capture the track. You'll only have a second, maybe two. We need to identify what's following us."

The two clones readied their equipment.

"Any time, Sir," Moog nodded.

"Three-Point, on my mark, cut engines, reverse thrusters. Full stop." Cody opened the ship-wide intercom. "All hands, prepare for full stop. Make sure you're secure." He waited several seconds to give the troops time to get ready.

"Full stop."

The ship decelerated and came to a complete stop.

Almost immediately, the shadow leaped into range and Moog stretched the track.

They all saw it at the same time.

"It's a Dreadnaught." Cody voiced what they all knew.

"Separatists."

"Zinger, raise the shields. Input the coordinates for light speed and get us out of here," the commander ordered.

"On it, Sir," Zinger replied.

"Three Point, keep our distance."

But it was already too late.

"They're closing rapidly, Commander," Moog announced. "I think they know we've spotted them. Three Point, Zinger, transferring telemetry to your screens. We're going to have company – soon." There was a quiet urgency in his voice.

"Why would they be trying to stealth track us?" Rex asked aloud, then answered his own question. "They know we're transporting those consoles. They don't want us to have the information stored on them."

"But why _track_ us? Why not just blast us to pieces outright?" Little Ride asked. "It's not likely they want those consoles back. I'm sure the information on them is stored in other places, as well."

It was Three Point who answered. "I'm sure they do intend to blow us to smithereens. They just wanted to wait until we were too far from Pylotta to make an easy return . . . and out of direct communications range."

"Have we passed that point?" Cody asked.

"Yes, Commander. We're better off going to hyperspace now than to try and return to the moon. And we're beyond direct comm range with Pylotta. The Resolute, while she was here, was the relay. We don't have any comm powerful enough to cover the distance. We're pretty much on our own until we can get close enough to another relay to send word to the fleet," the pilot replied, adding, "You'd better tell the men to make sure they're strapped in. The ride is about to get wild."

The image on the screen was bearing down at incredible speed.

Cody gestured to Rex, who went back to the lower deck to prepare the men.

"Zinger, how much longer before we can jump?" the commander asked, his trademark calm settling over the flight deck.

"Three, maybe four minutes," Zinger replied. "This area of space is still not fully charted, so there's a lot of retracing the Resolute's steps in making the calculations. It won't be one clean jump. It looks like it's going to be a series of jumps. I'm, uh . . . I'm trusting the navi-computer this time around, given the circumstances."

"Whatever you do, just make it fast," Three Point said. "They're going to be in weapons range in less than a minute."

"Keep them off us, Three Point." The way Cody said this made clear his confidence in the pilot's abilities.

"Will do, Commander."

Seconds passed as the Dreadnaught drew closer.

"They're within weapons—" Little Ride began, cutting himself off. "They're firing!"

"Commander, you need to strap in, too," Three Point warned. "I'm about to earn my pay."

Zinger laughed, "For what we earn, that's not saying much."

Cody took one of the empty seats on the bridge. "Nothing too fancy, Three Point. Just keep us in one piece long enough to make the jump."

The Separatist ship, while faster than the military transport, was not as maneuverable; and Three Point, though not a fighter pilot, knew how to fly like one. He'd had plenty of experience watching the likes of General Skywalker in aerial battles, and while he knew he could never match the Jedi's intuition, he could at least try to emulate his skill and creativity. Being assigned to the 212th, under General Kenobi's command, there was much less opportunity to observe unorthodox methods; but being that the 212th was assigned alongside the 501st more often than not, what was lacking in the 212th could easily be witnessed a glance away under Skywalker's command.

Three Point considered that he had the best of both worlds: the discipline and precision of General Kenobi and Commander Cody and the spontaneity and daring of General Skywalker and Captain Rex.

And he needed both of them now.

With nothing but open space around them, nothing to use as an obstacle, and very little in the way of offensive weapons, the only thing standing between his ship and obliteration was his ability to make use of every skill at his disposal until Zinger could get them into hyperspace. Fortunately, the two clone pilots had worked together long enough that they both had full faith in each other. Three Point trusted Zinger to get the job done in a timely manner, and Zinger trusted Three Point to keep them alive until he accomplished his job.

As Three Point began pulling maneuvers in an effort to evade the fire now coming at them from the Dreadnaught's array of weaponry, Zinger worked quietly and steadily, without any indication that he was perturbed or even concerned.

Such calmness under attack was one of the things Cody admired about Zinger, and he was glad he'd kept him behind as part of the follow-on team. Zinger was another clone who felt no need to stand out. He had no tattoos, no other markings, and he wore his hair in its original brown in a flat-top with just a bit of launch in the front, giving his face an angular appearance. His focus was always on the mission, and he was not easily distracted – a necessary quality on the battlefield.

"I'm going to double back and get in too close for them to use their weapons," Three Point announced. "LR, continual scan for tractor beams. Commander, I need you to keep an eye out for Vulture Droids. Once we're in close, that's the only way they'll be able to get us."

The transport may not have had the maneuverability or weaponry of a fighter, but it did have decent speed and, as far as such ships went, it was agile enough. Three Point swung up into a _Split S_ , barrel-rolling over the top, dodging fire and two tractor beam attempts.

"Moog, try to send a signal to the fleet," Cody ordered. "Tell them we're under attack."

"Sir, there are no relays—"

"I know that, but just try."

"They're jamming our signal," Moog announced several seconds later. "The best I can do is send out a distress call—"

A bolt of laser fire rocked the ship.

"Oh no, you don't," Three Point growled under his breath. He banked left and went into a continuous aileron roll that would have brought even the most battle-hardened veterans to the verge of motion sickness. But passenger comfort was not anywhere on his list of priorities. He brought the transport spiraling down towards the battleship, then—just as he'd seen General Skywalker do on more than one occasion—he skimmed the hull in an upward _U Arc,_ coming to hover just under the bridge.

"Now, they'll have to send out their fighters," the pilot announced. "As soon as we see them, we'll bolt; but this will buy us another fifteen seconds or so." He turned to his co-pilot. "Zing, how's it coming?"

"Inputting the last batch now," came the confident response. "You said fifteen? We'll be ready to go in ten."

"They've launched fighters," Little Ride reported. "Coming around, two-four-zero."

"Ready for light speed," Zinger said.

Three Point put a small distance between his ship and the Dreadnaught before engaging.

The stars stretched out in the field before them.

"A clean jump, if ever I saw one," Three Point noted with a grin.

Zinger nodded his acceptance of the compliment. "Good job flying."

Cody got up from his seat and put his hands on his pilots' shoulders. "Both of you, well done."

Little Ride got slowly to his feet. "Yeah, but next time remind me to bring a barf bag."

Cody chuckled. "I'm heading below decks, see how the others are doing."

Coming to the bottom of the ladder, he came first upon Kix, Echo and Fives. Echo, secure in his web bed, was sitting up with a poorly concealed grin on his face. At the small medical station behind the bulkhead, Kix was withdrawing a hypo from the field chest. He, too, was smiling in a crooked manner.

Sitting on the half-wall adjacent to the bulkhead, Fives had one hand on his stomach, his head resting against the other.

"This should do the trick," Kix said, pressing the hypo against Fives' neck. "Give it a few seconds." He turned to Cody. "Do you need one as well, Commander?"

"No, I'm fine," Cody answered. "I'm used to Three-Point's flying. But you probably have more patients needing your assistance in the back."

"I was just getting ready to go back and check on them," Kix replied. "Fives just, uh . . . came to me first."

"I wanted to make sure Echo was okay," Fives replied. He had managed to straighten up a bit, and he already was looking better than he had seconds ago.

"I came through it better than he did," Echo quipped.

Cody pat Fives on the back. "We've all been through it." With that, he headed towards the passenger and cargo areas. He found Ajax, Sempe, and Sixer giving Pitch a hard time for suffering from the same malady as Fives. In Pitch's case, it was rather humorous, given that, as a tough-as-nails demolition expert who loved blowing things up and never met a destructive method he didn't like, he had no stomach for aerobatics.

"Hang in there, Pitch," Cody consoled him. "Kix is coming. He'll take care of you." Moving further back, he met Rex coming forward. "Everyone okay back there?"

Rex nodded. "Jesse's looking a little green, but he'll survive. We went and checked to make sure the consoles hadn't come loose. Everything's secure."

"Good. I think we've got—"

A blast hit the ship with such violence, both Cody and Rex were thrown against the ceiling, only to find themselves suddenly hurtling forward, smashing into the forward bulkhead, then being tossed with brutal force all over the mid-bay. Alarms blared throughout the ship.

Cody grabbed a support strut and wrapped his arms and legs around it. He held his wrist comm up. "Three Point! Report! What's happening?!"

There was no reply.

"Three Point!"

For several seconds, there was only static, then Zinger's voice came over the comm. "Commander, this is Zinger. Three Point's trying to pull us out of this!"

"What happened?!" Cody repeated.

After another silence, this time it was Moog who answered. "We took a direct hit in the starboard engine—"

"How's that possible?" Cody demanded. "We're in hyperspace!"

"Not anymore," Moog answered. "They—somehow they were able to follow us into hyperspace, and they blasted us right out of it."

Rex, himself wedged into the doorway into the rear hangar, looked at Cody in disbelief. "That's impossible! How could they track us through hyperspace? And fire weapons while traveling at light speed? The warp of space would make it impossible for them to hit us—"

"Then call it a lucky shot," came Cody's grim reply. He spoke once again into his wrist comm, "Three Point, get this thing under control!"

"Working on it," came the curt response.

"We'd better try to get up there," Rex grunted.

"As soon as we let go, we're going to go flying again," Cody replied. "Give him a few more minutes to steady this out."

His confidence paid off, for within a minute, the ship stopped spinning. But it was clear that they were in serious trouble. The combination of shaking, shuddering and the groaning of stressed metal was indication that the danger was far from over.

"Let's get up there," Rex said, starting for the bridge.

"Go first and make sure everyone's okay. Tell them to strap in again," Cody countermanded. "Then meet me on the bridge."

Rex nodded.

When Cody got to the bridge, the first thing he noticed was that almost every alarm was lit up.

Zinger addressed Cody immediately. "Commander, we've got a big problem." He didn't wait for the inquiry. "We've lost the starboard engine completely, and the port engine is only at 60 percent. Getting knocked out of hyperspace damaged our navigation system and life support. Shields are down to 40 percent. With life support failing, we can't stay in space. We have to try and bring her down."

"But landing her is going to be tricky," Three Point put forth, not once taking his eyes from the star field and instrument displays.

"Are there any planets nearby?" Cody asked.

"Moog and Little Ride are going through the star chart database to see if they can find anything," Zinger replied. "With the navi-computer offline, we're flying blind."

"What about that Dreadnaught? Is it still following us?"

"Scanners are down. We can only use visual," Little Ride answered. "All the port cameras are out. We haven't seen any sign of the ship."

"At the speed we were moving, the arc for where we were knocked out of hyperspace covers dozens of systems. Unless they have some way of tracking where we are along that arc, they should have a hard time finding us," Zinger explained.

The ship rattled around them.

"I think we've got structural integrity problems," Three Point noted. "Boys, hurry up and find me a place to land this baby."

Instantly, Moog spoke up. "I've found something. Judging from the star field, we're in sector 8H. There are seven inhabitable planets within range—or I hope they're within range. With all our equipment down, we're going to have to eyeball it."

"You sure you're looking at the right charts?" Cody asked.

Moog gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Seventy percent."

"Good enough." Then into his wrist comm, "Rex, everyone okay down there?"

"We've got a few injuries, but nothing too serious. Kix is taking care of them," Rex replied. "I'm on my way up."

By the time Rex got to the bridge, Moog had identified the nearest planet, a large and heavily inhabited world called Bertegad. It was a nominally Republic-aligned planet with a predominant human population and several alien race minorities. Fully capable of space flight, the Bertagadens were nevertheless somewhat indifferent towards interplanetary dealings. They had a great love of their own planet and found little to entice them into wayfaring through space. Still, they had chosen a side in the war even though rarely called upon for any kind of contribution.

"This isn't going to be easy," Three Point grimaced as the planet came into view. "Once we break the atmosphere, I'm not going to have much control."

As a way of mitigating his pilot's concern for the lives in his care, Cody rejoined, "We don't have a choice. Life support is down to 20 percent. Just do the best you can."

"I'm going to try and belly her down," Three Point said. "If there are enough jump seats in the middle bay, it would be best to move everyone up. And make sure they strap in good and tight. If we make it through the atmosphere, we may get torn up on the landing."

Once again, at a motion from Cody, Rex headed back to the lower level.

Cody settled down into the seat he had occupied earlier. From the gravity in Three Point's manner, he knew they were in bad shape. Even under the worst of circumstances, Three Point usually had a lightness and frivolity about him. His confidence in his own abilities was so great that he could easily be considered arrogant, except that was not boastful.

He was anything but light and frivolous now. A daunting task lay before him, and there was no room for anything except full concentration and precision. Even so, and even with the face of luck smiling upon them, Three Point knew they could only hope not to disintegrate upon landing.

"Entering the atmosphere in two minutes," Zinger announced.

"Once we're through, I'm going to need you to keep the thrust ratio on that engine at balance four," Three Point instructed. "Let me handle the flying. You just keep that engine from going."

Zinger nodded once. "You got it."

Two minutes later, they entered Bertegad's atmosphere; and what had been a bumpy ride turned into a turbulent dive towards the surface.

"Holding at balance four," Zinger nearly shouted through rattling teeth.

Three Point coaxed the ailing ship into a pitched and rocky glide path. "Landing sites up ahead?" he inquired.

After a few seconds, Moog answered, "Somewhere in the southern hemisphere, there's a large stretch of desert-type terrain. We're not within visual of it yet. I don't know how far it is. There's plenty of water below us right now—"

"No, no water landings. She'd sink like a stone," Three Point deferred.

Moog went through several more possibilities, but in a tacit way, everyone present knew they really would not have a choice of landing sites. Wherever the ship came down would be its landing site.

And very possibly, the gravesite of all its passengers.

For the next ten minutes, the ship descended as both pilots did their best to maintain control. Passing into the lower atmosphere, they both saw a hazy line on the horizon.

"That looks like desert we're coming up on," Three Point stated. "Moog?"

"Yes, yes. That's it."

Cody saw Three Point's shoulders rise and fall in a long, deep breath.

"Okay then . . . here we go," the pilot said quietly. He glanced briefly at Zinger. "We just want to keep her in one piece. Follow my lead."

"I'm right behind you, boss," Zinger said, and it was not false assurance. The two pilots had a brotherhood of their own, and Zinger knew how to say just what Three Point needed to hear.

"We're _all_ behind you," Little Ride added.

Cody commed Rex. "We're going down. Prepare for impact."

Below decks, Rex relayed the order before going onto the other side of the bulkhead to pass it onto Kix and Echo. Then he returned to his seat and pulled his helmet on.

Beside him, Jesse leaned close. "Kinda wish we had something other than web seats."

From the other side, Hardcase replied. "I don't think it's going to make much difference."

Between them, Rex spoke firmly. "We aren't going to die this way."

Up on the flight deck, Three Point and Zinger were using the headsup displays in their helmets to get altimeter and ground speed readings. The desert stretched out below them, dunes rising and falling like waves. At one point they passed over a massive oasis-like complex.

"One thousand meters," Zinger reported.

"Take her to balance three, slowly," Three Point commanded. "We need to keep the angle at no more than ten if we can. Then on my command, we'll kick up to stall and you cut the engine. We need the rear to hit first and with no power."

"There's a lot of updraft," Zinger noted.

"Understood. Just keep the engine output steady."

Three minutes later, Zinger spoke again. "Five hundred meters." He spoke through gritted teeth. "I'm starting to lose balance. It's wavering between three and two. I can't hold the angle."

"Increase power."

Zinger did so. "Still wavering. 2.8, 2.4, 3.1. I don't know if I can bring her up to stall angle."

"Leave that to me," Three Point said calmly. "Just try and keep the output steady."

"Two hundred meters."

Moog, Little Ride, and Cody braced themselves.

"One hundred meters."

"Cut the engine," Three Point ordered, drawing back on the wheel and bringing the angle of attack up to fifteen degrees.

Moog spoke over the shared helmet frequency. "Brace for impact."

As planned, the rear of the ship hit first, its weight and force plowing through the dune, sending up a shower of sand in all directions. The forward momentum carried it into the next dune where it slid sideways, the metal frame twisting and tearing and still traveling at a high rate of speed. As it crashed into a steep and high wall of sand, it flipped onto its side, ripping into two pieces that came to rest thirty meters apart.

And then the desert fell silent again.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Dear Reader, a repost with some corrections. A little bit of gruesomeness here, but not too bad. Enjoy! CS**_

Chapter 8 Trees in the Desert

" _In nature, nothing is perfect and everything is perfect. Trees can be contorted, bent in weird ways, and they're still beautiful."_

 _Alice Walker_

* * *

" _Captain. Captain! Rex!"_

Someone was definitely calling his name – and with great urgency.

"I hear you. I hear you. Just . . . give me a second." Rex wasn't sure if he'd spoken out loud or not. His thoughts were jumbled, and a persistent ache nagged at his right shoulder. For a moment, he was back on Pylotta, hunkered down in the death pit with two injured men to care for—

Two injured men. _Two injured men._

That thought was the jolt that opened his eyes. He was not in the pit.

He was lying on the ground. The ship had crashed. He was still alive.

He was not looking through the filmy visor of his helmet, but rather the unfiltered view of unaided vision. Sixer, one of his 501st troopers, was looking down at him with a combination of worry and determination. As he tried to sit up, the pain in his shoulder cascaded down his side, and he drew in a sharp breath.

Sixer helped him sit up. "Where are you injured, Sir?"

Rex, seeing the wreckage around him, and now with the details of what had happened flooding back into his awareness, forgot about the pain. He scrambled to his feet, shrugging off Sixer's attempt at assistance. "What about the others? What are our casualties?"

"We just started looking, Captain," Sixer replied. "It's only been a few minutes since we came down."

"A few minutes? Then I wasn't out for very long," Rex half stated, half questioned.

"No, Sir. Sempe and I pulled you out of the wreckage. Sempe's gone back to look for the others. We were afraid the ship might explode—"

"There won't be any explosions."

Rex and Sixer turned towards the speaker. It was Zinger. He was limping across the disturbed sand, and bright red blood traced a thin line from his cheek down his jaw and neck. As he drew nearer, he continued speaking. "Three Point jettisoned the fuel tanks before we landed."

"Smart man," Rex nodded.

"Where is Three Point?" Sixer asked, and in his tone, it was clear that he feared the worst.

"He and Moog are with Little Ride," Zinger reported. "He got pretty banged up."

"Is he going to be okay?" Rex asked.

"I don't know," Zinger answered honestly. "He was unconscious when I left."

"What about you?" Sixer asked. "You've got a lot of blood coming from that laceration."

"Huh, I'll take it," Zinger dismissed. "You should see my helmet. Wheel broke loose and cracked it right down the middle. That would've been my head otherwise, so this little knick doesn't bother me at all."

"What about your leg? You're limping."

"It's not bad. Pulled muscle, maybe. I can help you look for the others," Zinger insisted. Then, he nodded towards the other half of the broken ship, "There's Commander Cody."

Cody was pulling himself up over the top of a great crack in the fuselage, and once on top, he turned and reached down to pull up Double Barrel (or DB for short) and Ajax, both 501st soldiers, both of whom appeared to be uninjured.

Rex directed Zinger and Sixer to go help Cody while he went to the other part of the wreckage. It appeared that the ship had torn in half between the first and second bulkheads, and there were pieces of debris scattered over a narrow swath between the two parts. The first thing Rex noticed as he headed for the front half of the ship was that, powers be praised, there were no bodies or body parts in the open space between the pieces. That didn't mean no deaths, but it gave him some small inkling of hope.

He was able to enter the crumpled remains of the front half through the tear line, and here he immediately came upon Slip, Gernot, and Bounce, the first two being his own men, Bounce one of Cody's. They were climbing up through the collapsed support struts that had somehow pushed up through the metal floor from the lower cargo hold. Rex helped pull them out the last few steps, noting what injuries he could see but grateful that they were alive and apparently not seriously hurt.

"Is anyone else down there?"

"Pitch and Tip are helping Puzzle. Looks like a broken leg," Slip replied. "We came up to see if there's anyone else we can help."

"What about Echo? Fives?"

"Fives is down there," Slip replied. "He was trying to get through the bulkhead to Echo and Kix. I don't think he was having any luck."

"We may have to go in through the bridge," Rex put forth. "This part of the ship is nearly folded in two. Look around. See if you can find another way in."

As the other three headed off on their task, Jesse and Hardcase approached from the other piece of the ship. They, too, looked as if they'd taken a beating but come out relatively unscathed.

Rex met them at the corner of the wreckage.

"Commander Cody sent us over here to help," Jesse announced. "He's got everything in hand over there."

"Any casualties?"

"None so far," the lieutenant replied. "But he's still looking. So far, we've accounted for 11 on that side." He began reciting names. "Including yourself, twelve."

Rex did a quick mental calculation. "That's 20. Only Kix and Echo are unaccounted for. Go see if you can help find a way in there. I'm going to see how Cody's doing."

"Yes, Sir."

Rex headed for the rear half of the ship. He climbed up on top and then jumped down into the labyrinth of warped and bent metal, utterly unrecognizable as what had once been part of the passenger bay and the rear cargo hold.

"Cody! Where are you?!" he called out.

"Wait! I'll send someone!" came the reply, and less than a minute later, Sempe appeared, peering up through a spiral of metal struts and beams.

"This way, captain."

Rex followed, carefully picking his way through sheered durasteel plates, shards of what had once been jumpseat supports, and a jungle of dangling cables and wires.

At length, they arrived in what was ostensibly the back portion of the passenger bay. And here, they found Cody and another 501st troop, March, tending to the final member of Rex's contingent, Keeper , who was sitting on the floor, complaining not so much about the pain but rather the fact that he had been the one to be injured. His right arm was clearly broken, and the right side of his chest plate was awash in blood. All the same, his demeanor was upbeat, and Rex wondered if maybe he wasn't slipping into shock.

"How's he doing?" Rex asked, hunkering down.

"He's a bit giddy. We shot him full of painkiller. We should be ready to move him in a few minutes," Cody replied. "Everyone else?"

"So far, everyone's accounted for except Kix and Echo," Rex replied. "I've got men trying to find them." A pause. "No fatalities . . . so far. We've got some injuries, but I'm not sure how severe yet. Everyone's been running around, and I haven't had a chance to take a look yet."

Cody looked up with something like disbelief in his eyes. "No fatalities?"

"Let's hope it stays that way," Rex replied.

No sooner had he finished speaking than his wrist comm buzzed.

"Captain Rex, this is Jesse. We need you to come over here. Quickly."

"What is it?" Rex inquired.

"We've found Kix and Echo. Sir, we need you over here. You'll have to come in through the bridge and down the ladder," Jesse repeated. He sounded more agitated than Rex had ever heard him before.

"I'm on my way," Rex acknowledged. He looked to Cody, who turned to March and Sempe.

"You two have it from here. I'll send a couple men back to help lift him out."

With that, both captain and commander headed for the other side of the wreckage.

They scurried up the side of the ship to the smashed windows of the flight deck and crawled inside. Here, much to Rex's relief, he saw Little Ride sitting up and speaking coherently, Moog's arm around his shoulders, steadying him.

"How is he?" he asked.

"He's going to be okay," Moog replied.

"Good, good," Rex said, the relief audible in his voice. "Stay with him." He and Cody continued through the bridge and then picked their way down what had once been the ladder leading to below decks. Now, it was like some crazy piece on an obstacle course. Once at the bottom, Rex called out.

"Jesse?! Hardcase?!"

"Back here, captain!"

Rex made his way through the wreckage, Cody fast on his heels.

They came to the barely recognizable area behind the first bulkhead that had served as the ship's small medical station. On one side, they saw Echo sitting on the floor, fully awake and alert, seemingly none the worse for the ordeal, Fives and Gernot beside him. On the opposite side, Jesse and Hardcase were kneeling down in front of Kix, who was sitting awkwardly against the crumpled outer wall. Right away, both officers noticed the pallor of the medic's face and what was clearly a tightly held attempt at self-control.

Rex dropped to one knee. "What is it?"

Kix lowered his eyes without moving his head and both Rex and Cody followed his gaze. In the small gap below his armor's breast plate, a blunt piece of metal was protruding.

If there was one thing Rex and Cody both had become skilled at, it was controlling any expression of shock or horror.

Jesse spoke quietly. "It's clear through. It's one of the metal supports from the jump seats. It must have gotten twisted up in the crash and bent away from the fuselage. It looks like the impact threw him right on top of it."

"Is it still attached to the wall?"

Jesse nodded.

"Where's a medi-scan?" Cody asked, motioning to Hardcase and Gernot to start looking.

Rex reached out and put his hand on Kix's shoulder. "Hang in there, Kix. We're going to take care of you."

"Y-you can't take-take it out," Kix gasped. "I'll bleed—to death."

The bluntness with which he said this made Rex's heart drop into his gut. "We're not going to let that happen."

"It has-has to stay in until we—we get to a med-medical fa-fa-" He couldn't finish and fell silent, his breathing shallow and labored.

"Don't try to speak anymore. Just take it easy," Rex said, and within him, the part of his soul that demanded every situation be solved, every wrong righted, and every bad turn made good, rose up and took over. He turned to Cody. "Can we cut it?"

"I'm sure we can," the commander replied. He turned to Jesse. "Find something to cut that with." The he raised his voice. "Slip!"

Slip came over. "Yes, Commander?"

"See if you can figure out where we are and get communications up. We need to see if we're in communications range with the fleet. We need to let them know what's happened." He lowered his voice. "He's going to need help right away."

"Yes, Sir."

After Slip had left, Cody spoke quietly to Rex. "Looks like we've got a big problem on our hands." And he wasn't referring only to Kix, but rather to the entire situation.

"We can handle it," Rex answered, and it was more than wishful thinking or insincere encouragement. Rex never gave up the fight. He had the utmost confidence in his men and in his own ability to lead them.

Hardcase returned with a medical scanner.

"I hope it works," he said, handing it over to Rex. "Everything is busted up."

Rex activated the scanner, wishing they had another medic with them, for his medical skills were nominal. But even with his limited knowledge, he knew he was looking at a grave situation. The metal support rod was two centimeters square, and it had done a good deal of damage passing through Kix's body.

The protruding front end was covered in blood and small bits of flesh. It wasn't an acute point but rather a dull end, and it was easy to see how it would have done significant harm.

"What—what is this?" Rex asked, looking at the fuzzy image on the scanner's screen.

"Kidney? Liver? I don't know," Hardcase replied, adding, "It looks like it went right through the intestines—"

"Show me," Kix strained.

Rex showed him the scan.

"Yeah . . . that's a mess." He seemed unwilling to comment any further, and his head drooped against his chest.

"What can we do?" Rex asked. "Is it safe to give you a painkiller? Or a—a sedative? What can we do, Kix?"

"Coagulant . . . low dose," came the mumbled response. "Pain hypo. No sedative." He swallowed. "Stay warm." After a brief silence, he spoke once more. "Others . . . injured?"

"Don't worry about that right now, Kix," Rex said. "We'll make sure everyone is taken care of."

Jesse rejoined them. "I found the laser torch. We should be able to cut through with this."

Hardcase grimaced. "Where's a Jedi when you need one? A light saber could cut through this easily."

As Jesse began to cut through the rod, Rex pat Hardcase on the arm. "Stay with him. Find a field stretcher and a blanket." With that, he and Cody checked on Echo, who assured them he was okay. They then headed for the ruined bridge where Little Ride had been evacuated and now Three Point and Zinger were scavenging through the wreckage for anything that might still be working. Slip was with Moog, trying to salvage the communications equipment.

"Any luck?"

Moog shook his head. "Everything's dead and . . . beyond repair, Sir. The distress beacon seems to still be working, but who knows where we got knocked out of hyperspace. They may not even know what system to look in. A beacon's only good if they have a general idea where to look." A pause. "I sent Bounce out to take some scans. There's nothing nearby. Remember that complex we passed? It's the closest, about 150 klicks due east. It's all desert in between."

Rex sighed. "I don't know if we can risk staying here until someone finds us. We're going to run out of water soon, and we only have enough hydration tablets to last two or three days for this many men. Our suits will offer some protection from the heat, but if it's going to be like this every day, we won't last long. It's already 46 degrees. It doesn't look like the sun has even reached apogee yet. I don't see that we have a choice. We're going to have to try and get to that complex."

"150 klicks across open desert," Cody frowned. "That's not going to be easy. And don't forget, our own forces might be looking for us, but so will the Separatists. They were hell-bent on taking us down. They must know what we're carrying."

"They won't rest until they know we're destroyed," Rex agreed.

"Or captured," Cody pointed out. He looked out through the broken window, his eyes scanning across the desert. "I agree. We have to move out. I think it's safest to move at night and take whatever cover we can find during the day. If we can cover 25 klicks a day, we should be able to make it."

"25 klicks a day is awfully fast for moving across sand," Three Point chimed in. "And with injured men."

"We have to try. We have no other viable options," Cody replied. "We can't stay here. Have Jesse take whoever's not helping the injured and start salvaging anything that might be useful, but nothing that we can't carry easily. We don't want to get weighed down. You and I will make sure the wounded can be moved. We'll leave as soon as everyone's ready to go, in case the Seppies are already here looking for us. We don't want to be anywhere near this ship. We'll travel through the night, then cover down during the day."

"Got it," Rex acknowledged, and he set his shoulders. "We should probably dismantle the beacon, too. The Separatists can detect it just as well as our own forces."

Cody grimaced. "You're right. We'll do it. Now let's get going."


	9. Chapter 9

_**Dear Reader, a hint of some backstory here that will be fully fleshed out in later chapters. Since I love writing about the bonds between military types, please excuse my indulgence here. And also . . . I do like feedback, even if it's just a one-liner to say, "nice chapter." I'd appreciate it! Peace, Check Six (This is a repost with corrections)**_

Chapter 9 Wandering in the Desert

" _Is there something we have forgotten? Some precious thing we have lost, wandering in strange lands?"_

-Arna Bontemps

* * *

"There's no cover out here at all," Rex noted. "If the Separatists are looking for us, we're going to be easy to spot."

"Let's just hope it's like Zinger said, and it takes them a long time to figure out exactly where on the arc we fell out of hyperspace," Cody replied.

They had travelled in the glaring sunlight of midday. Although their plan was to move by night, in their hurry to get away from the ship, they had set off across the desert just as the sun was approaching its peak in the sky. And when it set, they would continue their trek. There would be no rest until the following morning. It would be asking much from the group of men, most of whom were sporting some form of injury from the crash; but this was something they had been trained for since their earliest days on Kamino. Survival skills, escape and evasion, endurance.

There would be no complaints, no soft spines, no lamenting the hand of fate. Yes, there would be exhaustion, pain, and the ever-present question of whether or not they would survive. But not one of them would ever say a word to draw attention to such matters. Their present concerns were threefold: protect and look after the more seriously injured among them; safeguard the information they had transferred from the consoles—what they could fit onto their various data devices; and stay alive until they reached their destination or were rescued, whichever came first.

They carried four men on litters.

Echo's leg was still not healed enough for him to stand, much less walk on; but he was grateful to have survived at all and so reconciled himself to being toted across the desert. Right now was the not the time to stubborn and insist on trying to walk . . .

. . . unless you were Puzzle. The loadmaster spent the first hour of their journey bemoaning how he, of all people, should be in such a position. "Bearing me across the desert like some great ancient ruler! This is humiliating!" However, his outrage was humorous in itself and lent an energy to the start of their travail.

Keeper, high on painkillers, was asleep and travelled well.

Kix had not spoken in a long while. They had laid him on his side and packed in heavy gauze strips where the rod entered and exited his body. His last words were to tell them not to use bacta patches, that it would be worse if his flesh started healing around the obtrusion. Since then, he had been silent and only partially conscious. It seemed likely that he would die in this wasteland.

The others went along as best they could. Some were clearly in better shape than others, and these lent assistance as needed. They all traveled with their helmets on to act as buffers against the heat. Zinger, whose helmet had been destroyed in the crash, used one of the spares that had been onboard the ship. Only Kix did not wear a helmet, and that was because his companions wanted to make sure they would be able to detect if he were in any increased distress. Instead, they draped him head to foot with one of the light-weight reverse-thermal coverlets scavenged from the ruined medical station. That would keep sand out of his wounds and protect his head from the sun. And it was much easier to check under than a helmet.

They'd brought along a few tarpaulins to use for shelter against the sun, but just how much good the they would do remained to be seen. They'd managed to scavenge some nutrient bars, a few medical supplies, two more field stretchers, roughly 15 liters of water, and a couple dozen hydration tablets. Lastly, they had their weapons.

Rex led the way and Cody kept tabs on the men.

That was the arrangement – and it had been so for as long as the two men had worked together.

Rex always went first. First into battle. First into the unknown. First to jump at any opportunity to use his skills as a soldier. First to blow his top yet somehow hide it from his men. First to feel the guilt. It might have been a way to keep his emotional attachment to his men at a safe distance. As a clone—especially a captain, and the captain of the 501st, at that—he was expected to display certain characteristics. Competence and loyalty went without saying. Competition was desirable as well, but only in so far as it contributed to the improvement of a clone's combat skills. Devotion to his general and to his men was one of Rex's greatest assets – and, in the eyes of some, one of his greatest weaknesses.

And so, more often than not, the task of looking after the men fell to Cody. It was a job at which he excelled. Unlike Rex, Cody knew how to separate his personal feelings from the mission at hand. He genuinely cared for the men, but he also understood that, despite where his emotions might lead him, the men were always secondary to victory. A harsh reality, but reality nonetheless.

Cody couldn't imagine himself risking the war effort for anyone under any circumstance. Disobedience was as foreign to him as the embrace of a woman.

Had he been able to look into the future, he might have been surprised.

There was a part of Cody that was extremely gentle and compassionate. He had among his brothers those whom he looked upon as the equivalent of immediate family. And he had no way of knowing just how greatly he underestimated his affection for them. He treated them in an almost paternal manner, and that was how he coaxed the best from them.

This was almost the complete opposite of Rex, whose men gave their best because of the example of their captain and their desire to please him. There would be no question that Rex valued—yes, even loved—his men. But there was nothing, not a single thing, in his manner that could be called gentle. Because his men knew how he felt about them, Rex could be as tough, demanding, and occasionally absurd as he so desired. His men would follow. They always did.

They followed him now.

Cody kept a close eye on the others, especially Kix, checking several times every hour to make sure the medic was still breathing. He also noticed that Little Ride seemed to be having some difficulty keeping his balance; and given that he'd suffered some kind of head injury and been unconscious for a time, he decided that he should be carried on a stretcher, at least part of the time.

But one more thing caught his eye: Rex, too, seemed to be moving awkwardly.

Edging up beside him, he asked over their closed helmet circuit. "Where are you hurt?"

Rex was surprised. "Is it that obvious?"

"To me."

"Eh, just my shoulder. Feels like something's broken, but it's not that bad."

Cody wasn't so easily put off. "Is that it?"

Rex sighed beneath his helmet. Why did Cody have to be so damned observant?

"It's been kind of spreading down my side," he replied. "I think they're two separate injuries."

"You'd better let me take a look—"

"Not now, Cody," Rex replied firmly. "Once we stop, you can take a scan. The last thing they need to see is that their captain is injured."

Cody shook his head. "That's ridiculous. They've seen you injured before—"

"Look, it's not that bad," Rex insisted. "I can keep going, and if we stop now, we're going to lose our momentum."

"That's also ridiculous," Cody countered, then adding, "I won't make you stop right now. But if I feel it's necessary, I will. And at the latest, it will be when we stop tomorrow. First thing."

Rex smiled in the privacy of his helmet. "You're sounding very authoritative, Commander."

Cody spoke in a knowing voice. "Yeah, well, I haven't forgotten all your criticism from ARC school."

"But I was right," Rex put forth. "You _were_ indecisive. You used to change your mind every five seconds."

"Well, just hope I don't change it now and decide to make you stop where you stand." As a threat, it was effective. Cody outranked Rex, and despite their friendship, Rex would always respect and defer to Cody's authority . . . except when he could convince him to act otherwise.

"No, no need to do that," Rex assured him.

"Good. Then let's push on."

* * *

"Lord Admiral Vrehnka, based off the speed they were traveling and their last known trajectory, we believe they would have come out of hyperspace somewhere along this arc."

Lord Admiral Vrehnka turned his watery gaze towards the holographic image being projected from the main navigation station. He gave it only the briefest glance before looking away disdainfully.

" _Kurbin_ , that arc must cover at least fifty star systems. You will have to do better than that," he whiffled, his voice nasal and thin with a distinctly aristocratic tenor.

Dushanak Vrehnka was a Copian, a citizen of Copia, one of the hundreds of thousands of planets that had claimed an early alliance with the Confederacy—he refused to use the term Separatist, for he felt that the Republic had been the one to separate itself from its vast sea of populations, and not the other way around.

As a Copian, he displayed the distantly shared characteristics of his Aqualish brethren on Ando, none of which could be considered attractive except to another Copian – and perhaps an Aqualish female. He had a strange effeminate manner that was in stark contrast to his brutish appearance – a ruthlessness even the fine cloth of the admiralty couldn't hide.

This task of tracking down a group of clones—ugh! clones of all things!—was so far beneath the dignity of his office that he'd almost considered declining the assignment. Until he recalled what usually happened to those who failed to meet Count Dooku's orders.

Ah, but the Count was light years away! Busily engaged in his own business. Admiral Vrehnka could do as he pleased, and would Dooku ever be the wiser? Just say the ship and its contents were obliterated in space.

Except for those infernal battle droids. Surely, they were reporting back every move the admiral made, or didn't make. Dooku probably was watching him now through the co-opted eyes of one or more of the dim-witted droids at this moment.

What was so important about what these clones were carrying, anyway? What ignorant decision had led to transmitting and storing valuable information at a newly sprung and clearly unsecure base on a woefully unprotected planet?

Whatever it was, the handful of spies operating on Pylotta had dutifully reported that the clones were transferring the consoles containing the data, and the order had come to stop them at all costs. A particularly well-placed spy provided ping data and lift-off time for the unfortunate transport. Finding and tracking it had been so easy. It was going to be such an easy elimination . . .

And then those _clones_ —the very word made him cringe with loathing—the very pinnacle of a lack in creativity, the mass production of a middling product . . .

Somehow, they'd discovered the pursuit.

Vrehnka did not grin – his facial structure did not permit it – but his eyes narrowed and a low gurgling in his throat belied his perverse satisfaction.

For surely the clones had thought that, once achieving hyperspace, they had outrun the danger.

But not this danger. Not the capabilities of the admiral's specially-equipped Dreadnaught. A new technology. A test technology. And now, a technology that would find them wherever they were and finish the job.

Yes, indeed. Finish the job. Admiral Vrehnka hated loose ends.

* * *

Jesse sat facing the sunrise.

At this point, with the planet's star still below the horizon, the dawn was a grey and dismal thing, a perfect match for Jesse's mood.

He sat on the sand beneath one of the tarpaulins that had been raised as a lean-to shade. Beside him, Kix lay on his stretcher, silent and unmoving. Around him, the others were setting up the rest of the tarp shelters.

They had travelled through the night, and it had turned quite cold once the sun had gone down. But again, the armor had fulfilled its function and protected them from the sudden plunge in temperature. And now, at last, they had a chance to rest.

Hardcase and Pitch, after helping set up the other shelters, came and joined Jesse.

"How's he doing?" Pitch asked.

"I tried to get him to drink something, but he's in and out," Jesse replied. "So I dabbed water on his mouth and tongue. Did any of those hypos we brought have saline? I'm afraid he's going to dehydrate. And look at this . . . " He lifted the blanket. The gauze wedges around the entry and exit wounds were half soaked with blood. "For kriff's sake . . . why the hell did it have to be Kix?"

Pitch ran his hand over the back of Kix's head. "Stay with us, mate. Top will kill us all if he comes back and finds out anything's happened to you—" He said it as an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but his voice caught in his throat, and he fell morosely silent.

"We're not very good at keeping our promises, are we?" Hardcase frowned.

"There wasn't anything we could have done about this," Jesse replied, but he did not sound convinced by his own words. "It was just . . . rotten luck. The important thing now is do whatever we can to keep him alive until we find help."

"Do you think we're really going to find help out here? Whatever that oasis was that we flew over, what are the chances they have the medical skills to handle this?" Hardcase asked.

"I don't know, but until we're rescued, it's the only hope we've got," Jesse replied. "Why don't you two get some rest. I'll keep an eye on him and wake one of you up in four hours or so. We can take turns."

"Incredibly enough, I think I'm too exhausted to sleep," Pitch stated.

"Not me," Hardcase blurted out. "I could sleep on my feet right about now." That those words, he leaned back in the sand. "Wake me when it rains."

Jesse felt a slight, genuine smile forming on his lips. Of all his squad mates, Hardcase was the most indomitable. Nothing fazed him. He was up to any challenge, and when that challenge was over, he promptly forgot all about it until the next one. That ability to turn himself on and off from one moment to the next was a trait Jesse had long admired.

Like all his squad mates, Hardcase wore a facial tattoo. His was in blue ink and stretched up over the top of his shaved head and down the back of his scalp. If one looked closely enough, they would discover the seemingly random design was actually old Yelvin code for "Big." Only he and his squad mates knew the story behind it, and they had no inclination to share it.

He was utterly dependable, a little crazy, and bound to his squad mates like a Hutt infant to its father. His fearlessness made him a much desired companion in battle, yet Jesse knew that there was one thing Hardcase did dread.

And it was facing him now, out here in the waves of the sand of some forsaken planet, a place he had never been, never even known existed.

The threat of loss had somehow always seemed far removed from the members of Saber Squad – well, ever since leaving Kamino, to be accurate. On Kamino, the five of them—Flat Top, Jesse, Hardcase, Pitch, and Kix—had been the team to beat. And the most unorthodox, cutthroat, and—some might say—wild squad to graduate from basic training. Up to that point, at least.

Such a combination hadn't been without its difficulties, however; and not one of them would forget what their unconventional methods and untamed drive to win had almost cost them . . .

And even though their present dilemma had its origins in much different circumstances, Jesse was sure that Pitch and Hardcase were feeling the same things they had felt back on Kamino, there on the verge of disaster.

 _We're going to lose him._

Those events, forever in the past but always bubbling somewhere just below the surface, were what had forged them into the team they were now, more steadfast in loyalty to each other than ever before. And what was lacking in one or another, the reset would make up for.

There was something comforting in knowing that your brothers wouldn't abandon you, no matter what.

"He can sleep anywhere, anytime," Pitch remarked. "Look, he's already gone. How does he do that?"

Jesse shook his head. "I have no idea. But look, even if you can't sleep, at least try to relax a bit. It's going to get damned hot in a few hours, and we've got a long way ahead of us. We're all going to need our strength."

* * *

By the end of the third night, Rex was starting to understand General Skywalker's hatred—no, it wasn't too strong a word—for sand. Not only was it difficult to walk in, but under the sun, it was too hot to touch bare-skinned; and at night it cooled down to a point where a man could feel the chill off of it. It managed to somehow get even under the body gloves the clones wore, not to mention mucking up the filtration units on their helmets. It was fine enough to penetrate the smallest opening, yet gritty enough to irritate.

They had crossed almost a 100 kilometers, but the going was slower and more difficult than either Rex or Cody had imagined, for the dunes were high and gave way easily under footfalls. Trying to maintain their direction towards their objective would not be possible without taking some detours around the larger and more treacherous rises of sand.

All water had been exhausted, with the exception of one canteen that Jesse kept for Kix to keep his mouth moist. The rest of the men had begun taking the hydration tablets. And those would be gone by the end of the following day, most likely.

On top of a tall, east-facing dune, Rex joined Cody and one of the 212th's junior pilots, Bounce, whose name was a good representation of his flying. Behind and below them, the rest of the men were setting up camp.

Bounce was looking through a pair of binoculars.

"Can you pick up anything yet?" Cody asked.

"I think I'm seeing a . . . maybe the top of a tower? It's hard to be sure. Take a look, Commander."

Cody looked through the binoculars. He could see immediately what had drawn Bounce's attention.

"I think you're right. That looks like the very top of a tower or spire. Range finder shows . . . roughly forty klicks." He lowered the binoculars and allowed himself a grin. "I think we're going to make it."

"Commander Cody!"

On his internal helmet channel, Cody heard Slip's voice. He sounded urgent. Cody, knowing that he'd sent Slip up onto the dune rising to north, turned his attention in that direct.

"What is it—" He began, falling abruptly silent. "Fek and all . . . "

He needed no report and no binoculars to see what was coming.

He opened the common channel.

"Sand storm! Everyone take cover!"

 _ **So, a bow to the "I'm always first, kid," from Rookies.**_

 _ **Kurbin means "Commander".**_

 _ **Hard Case's Tattoo? No idea, I made it up.**_

 _ **And a bow to Rotta the Hutt (cutest little thing who sounds like my cat).**_


	10. Chapter 10

**_Dear Reader, Just a couple notes. You will see where I completely ripped off the lyrics from Art Garfunkel's Bright Eyes (just a couple lines). Just love the imagery in the song. Also, another homage to Rookies (so many good things in that episode). And some hints at Cody/Rex history. Enjoy. Peace, CS_**

Chapter 10 Austeniens

" _The twelfth degree of humility is not only humble of heart, but always appearing so in his whole exterior to all that see him; namely, in the garden, on a journey, in the field, or wherever he may be, sitting, walking, or standing."_

The Rule of Saint Benedict

* * *

Suffocation was not how Cody had imagined his end would come. He'd always imagined he'd be killed in action, in the blink of an eye and without realization, by blaster fire or a grenade or some other implement of war.

Not by an implement of nature.

As he lay pressed flat against the sand, Slip, Bounce and Sempe beside him under the tarpaulin, he began to think that a violent and quick death would certainly be preferable to the slow roll of an encroaching hypoxia, no matter how peaceful such a demise might be.

They held the tarp close over them, their gloved fingers clenched into the fabric with every bit of strength against the brutal force of the wind; yet still, the sand managed to whip up under the tarp, into their helmet filters and everywhere else the wind took it.

Cody could feel the weight of the sand increasing on top of them. Over his helmet comm, he took reports of the other men's status. They had all taken refuge under the tarps, spacing themselves far enough apart so that if one group got covered by sand, perhaps another group would be spared and able to lend assistance.

Of all the things he'd experienced in the throes of war, this was a new one for Cody. For the life of him, he could not remember ever covering sandstorm survival, either in Basic or ARC school. He found himself winging it now, and as the sand built up over the tarp, he wondered if perhaps they should have stayed on their feet and scrabbled to stay on top of the shifting drifts. Their armor would have protected them – except for clogging their filters . . . once again, suffocation. The wind probably would have blown them ascatter all across the place, perhaps never to regroup.

Crummy options all around. Nothing to do but cover down and wait it out.

The storm had thrown them into complete darkness, only adding to the uneasiness. For over an hour, the desert tempest roared and swirled and pitched its way from north to south. And when, at last, the sound of the tumult died, there was only silence.

On Cody's circuit.

But next to him, Sempe reported, "I'm picking up Rex on my comm. Are you not receiving him, Commander?"

Cody checked his HUD and helmet comm. Neither of them were working.

"The sand must have damaged it," he said. "No, I'm not hearing him."

"I'll put him on broadcast," Sempe replied. "Captain Rex, please repeat."

A moment later, there came Rex's voice, calm and professional and straight to business.

"Report."

Cody listened to the rest of his team call in. Everyone was accounted for—and still alive—but they were all trapped beneath the sand. None of them knew just how deeply they were buried, and digging out would be a cautious task to undertake, but it had to be attempted.

Otherwise, they would all surely perish where they lay and become a part of the desert that had defeated them.

* * *

"General Skywalker, the transport's failed to check in."

Before Anakin could respond to the Resolute's bridge communications officer, Obiwan, from the doorway through which he had just entered, spoke up with a hint of exasperation in his voice.

"Didn't we just go through this four weeks ago?"

"Hey, don't look at me. Cody's the mission commander. Rex is just along for the ride," Anakin came back cheekily.

"Yes, and Cody only seems to have this problem when Rex is with him," Obiwan noted, then to the comm officer. "Have you tried to raise them?"

"I've been trying, Sir," the clone replied. "They were out of contact range for at least one standard rotation, but they should have been close enough to the next relay nearly six hours ago. They should have made contact then. I've been trying to raise them ever since."

"Keep trying," Obiwan ordered, then he led Anakin aside. "If those two haven't returned by the time we're ready to go after Dooku, then we'll have to do it without them."

"You don't suppose they could have run into trouble again, do you?" Anakin asked.

"Let's hope not," Obiwan replied. "They're carrying what could be potentially very valuable cargo."

Anakin cocked his head to the side. "I was worried about my men."

"Well, I wouldn't," came the reply, spoken with a subtle grin. "They always manage to pull through somehow."

* * *

Was it really getting lighter?

Or was he slipping away into that world from which no one ever returned? Was this what it looked like to approach death? He'd heard all kinds of stories about near-misses and white lights, fogs along the horizon, strange glows in the sky, shadows reaching into the night . . .

And he'd never paid any serious attention. What was the purpose of pondering death? It was unavoidable, and whatever it felt like—well, that was something better left to the Jedi to contemplate. But now that he was facing it, he conceded that perhaps it deserved some little part of his attention; although he was having trouble corralling his thoughts. Everything seemed disjointed. Just how long had he been under here?

There was a rustling sound, a sort of murmur of voices, and then his helmet was being removed.

"Here now . . . " Something cool touched his face, and then he knew it was safe to open his eyes. He wasn't dead.

Cody's vision was blurry for only a few seconds; and when it cleared, he saw squatting down in the sand in front of him, a man with olive skin and a curious wad of cream colored cloth piled atop his head. Two long plaits of blue-black hair framed both sides of his clean-shaven face, and he was peering at Cody through eyes that, though dark and heavy, had a benevolence in them that seemed unlikely and out-of-place in a galaxy at war.

The man held out a satchel made from some animal skin or other. "Drink this, friend."

Cody took a quick, desperate gulp, coughed and then tried to speak, only to find his throat was so dry and irritated, he could not get the words out. He looked anxiously to his left then his right, feeling an immediate sense of relief upon discovering that the three men who had shared his tarp were also being attended.

"Slow down, drink again," the man instructed. "We know there are more of you. My brothers are searching for them now."

Whether through habit or conditioning, when Cody heard mention of the word, _brothers_ , he took a closer and more discerning look at the man facing him.

No, definitely not a clone. Not that kind of brother.

Cody took another drink, then against the man's attempts at deferring him, he got to his feet and looked around.

There were at least a dozen men combing through the sand. They all wore the same curious headgear. They all had the same plaits of hair, though not all the same color, framing their faces. They all were garbed in the same loose-fitting tan and brown robes, cinched at the waist with a simple braided cord. But that was where the similarities ended. They were different heights, different colors, different faces, different builds.

"No, it is not a good idea for you to go over there," the first man cautioned as Cody took a first stumbling step towards the searchers. "Let my brothers do the work. They have life-sign scanners. They will find your friends."

"Tw-twenty-two," Cody spluttered, taking another gulp of water, rinsing and then spitting out a mouthful of wet sand.

"I understand. Now, please, please, sit and rest."

Cody could not sit and he could not rest. Not until he knew the status of his men. But he would at least stay out of the way. He leaned down and reached for his helmet with the intent to use its comm, but then he recalled that the sand had gotten imbedded into the circuitry, and his helmet was now good for very little other than protection.

Sitting on the ground to his left, the ever-attentive Sempe held up his helmet. "You can use it, Commander." He sounded as ragged as he looked.

Cody put the helmet on and called for a report. He received answers from only Gernot and Three Point. He looked at the HUD in Sempe's helmet. The chronometer had advanced barely two hours since the sand storm. How likely was it that all of them had survived being buried alive for two hours?

Cody stood waiting in silence. There wasn't much else he could do. It was then that he noticed the presence of six large reptile-like animals, each easily the size of a ground troop transport, All-Terrain Tactical Enforcer formally, or Grasshopper as a term of affection. They stood quietly by, thirty meters or so away, and even though no one was watching them, they stayed in place. They were lightly burdened with riding platforms, clearly marking them as the means by which the newcomers had arrived.

A shout went up in a language Cody didn't recognize.

The man with him translated. "Four more have been found, and they are all alive."

A few seconds later, another call went up, followed by the translation. "One of them is badly injured."

"Show me," Cody rasped.

His companion carefully led the way around one of the sand drifts, and here they came upon Jesse and company. From the way Jesse, Pitch and Hardcase looked—and sounded—Cody knew that they had put everything into protecting Kix, most likely using their own bodies to try and shield him beyond the protection of the tarp.

As the commander and the first man approached, two rescuers looked up and both began speaking at once in the foreign tongue of only moments' earlier. The man with Cody interjected calmly and gently, only a word or two in that language.

When the two men spoke again, it was in accented but perfectly understandable Basic.

"This one is hurt very badly. He needs help soon, or he will die."

"Prepare to move him," replied Cody's companion.

Cody, now having regained his wits and his ability to speak, took a step forward. "Hold on . . . who are you?"

"I am Fels Au-Ogusta," the man replied. "These are my brother Fels."

Cody was no wiser for the answer. "But who _are_ you? How did you know we were here? We were buried under all that sand."

"We come from the Monastica," came the reply. "We saw you approaching when you were still far off. We could see that you carried some injured people on litters, so we assumed you were pilgrims coming for healing. We saw the sandstorm would overtake you, and we came to help. We did not know you were clones until we dug you out."

Cody eyed him warily. "Does it matter that we're clones?"

"No, no matter," Au-Ogusta answered. "It is only that we are surprised. We have never seen a clone here. How did you come to be here, out in the desert, and in such . . . difficult condition?"

"Our ship crashed," Cody replied. "We were trying to get to a facility we saw as we were coming down."

"A facility? That is the Monastica. That is where we live."

"Monastica? Are you a religious order?"

"We are." A pause. "We are Austeniens."

"I've never heard of that." Cody stated.

"I am sure there are many spiritualties across the universe that you have never heard of," came the amiable reply. Then he added, "We are a healing order."

This pronouncement seemed too good to be true.

Au-Ogusta went on without prompting. "That is why we thought you were pilgrims. We have many thousands of people every year who come to seek healing. When we saw you coming, Doma Maree sent us out to greet you. We tried to reach you before the storm hit, but it was moving too quickly."

As Cody listened, his hopes sunk a bit. Did this healing order of Austeniens actually have medical skills? Did they have the means to patch up his injured men? Or were they of the chanting, witch-doctor, power of good aura types? For while positive vibes and minimal skill might be enough to help those of his men less seriously injured, he held no illusion that Kix or Puzzle or even Echo could be healed by good thoughts. They needed real doctors with proven abilities.

"Here! Here are four more!"

Cody was jolted from his thoughts at the cry. With Au-Ogusta at his side, they headed back towards the front and around the opposite side of the drift.

And here, Cody felt the wind go out of him in one long, albeit haggard, breath of relief.

Rex was sitting up, forearms on his bent knees, helmet resting on the ground at his side, and a water bladder gripped in one hand. His head hung between his shoulders, and one of the Austeniens was kneeling beside him, gingerly probing between the armor plates of his shoulder and side.

Cody, like all clones, had been trained not to succumb to stress and fatigue. He'd been conditioned to accept loss as the inevitable outcome of any existence. He would lose many people throughout his life, and one day he himself would die. That was the way of things, and it was a simple enough truth to grasp. Pushing ahead through loss was a given in the life of a clone trooper. Cody firmly believed that. After all, at the casualty rate within the GAR, a man was lucky to share a _foxhole_ with the same brother for more than eight months. That was the life expectancy of a clone once they first stepped onto the battlefield.

It had, on occasion, occurred to the commander how shallow such an existence might be. To grow up in a completely controlled environment, form insular friendships with fellow batchers, ship off to war, and in a few months be dead. Shallow, indeed. Perhaps that was why more and more of his brothers—especially those who were produced at the same time as him and were still alive to tell about it—lived as if they had to get the most out of every moment. They needed to make a difference in some way. They wanted all the experience they could get, never knowing if there would be a next time.

But for Cody, it wasn't like that. Quite by accident, the commander had discovered the great secret. All the experience in the universe, all the anxious running from one adventure to the next, from battle to battle, all the boons of being the perfect soldier . . . none of that could usurp the place of honor from the creation of a deep and abiding friendship, a bond of agape that found its way but rarely into the lives of people who lived in the center of the war's desolation.

And while Cody never consciously dwelled on his good fortune, it was times like this—seeing that Rex was still alive—that roused the tacit reminder in the commander's brain that, despite all the habituation of Kamino, he had somehow stumbled upon a relationship that fell outside the boundaries of what he had been taught to feel and believe.

When he thought back now on the earliest moments of that acquaintance—the wondering what he had done to end up being partnered with such an . . . unconventional brother, concluding that not even ARC school was enough to make him want to put up for one more day with that kind of arrogance, the determination that, _if nothing else, I'm going to beat this guy_ —it was easy for Cody to see how all the things he'd despised in Rex initially were the very things he himself had wished he'd possessed.

Of course, he would never tell him that. That wasn't the sort of conversation fighting men had. And to own the truth, Cody felt quite certain that he had mastered the ability to have such a friendship without growing so attached that it jeopardized the mission. He was, after all, Obiwan Kenobi's clone commander, ever observing and imbibing his Jedi general's wisdom and even elements of his manner. The proper amount of detachment was only an observation away.

He approached Rex and dropped to one knee in front of him. "You okay?"

"Feel like . . . a sandbag," came the gravelly response, followed by a fit of coughing, then a swig from the bladder. "Damned helmet seals . . . "

Cody grinned. "They work better in space than against a sand storm."

"I guess in space, they don't have all kinds of debris trying to blow its way in." This came from Sixer, who was trying to shake the sand out of his hair.

Au-Ogusta was leaning over beside his brother, who was gesturing to Rex's side.

"You are injured here," Au-Ogusta said, indicating an area where it the black body glove was swollen and pressing against the armor plating and its connectors.

"Yeah, it happened in the crash," Rex mumbled, utterly disinterested.

Cody was not so sanguine. The previous morning, by his own order and as threatened, he'd checked over Rex's injuries, much to the latter's consternation—truly, the 501st captain was a terrible patient—and, in addition to a badly bruised shoulder—the result of a broken collar bone—he'd found an ugly discoloration that had stretched from under his shoulder about halfway down the ribcage. There had been no broken skin, no signs that he'd been suffering any significant pain; and other than to wrap it, there was little to do for treatment under the circumstances.

"Let them take a look," the commander ordered.

And for once, Rex did not argue.

Yet, Au-Ogusta made no move to remove the armor. "Wait until we are moving. We must get you out of the heat and the sand. All of you, we must get you to the Monastica quickly."

"Why, is something wrong?" Cody asked.

"More storms will come," Au-Ogusta replied. "It is the season. And you are all suffering much from such heat."

"We still have ten men missing," Cody pointed out.

"We will find them first," Au-Ogusta replied, then to his brother, "Start getting them on the Shempa and tending to them. Raise the shade cover. I will send Au-Bendit and Au-Marte to assist."

"How far is it from here to the Monastica?" Cody asked.

"Half a day's travel. But we will make it faster."


	11. Chapter 11

_**Dear Reader, in creating the Monastica and the Doma, I drew on aspects from many different religions and spiritual orders. I find world religions fascinating, so you will find a little bit of everything over the next few chapters! Peace, CS (This is a repost with a few corrections)**_

Chapter 11 The Monastica and the Doma

" _The miracle is not that we do this work, but that we are happy to do it."_

-Mother Teresa

* * *

It was a hypnotic movement.

The lolling sway of the Shempa's languid gait.

It certainly had all the right elements to ease a man comfortably into sleep—especially a wounded and exhausted man. Or twenty two of them.

And as Cody took an assessing gaze over his team, he discovered that a number of them had already found the enticement too much to resist. He was actually glad of it, for he had seen how badly in need of rest they were.

As for his concerns regarding the Austeniens' doctoring skills, those had been almost immediately put to rest. Within seconds of helping the clones onto the Shempa platforms, the Austeniens had begun administering treatment: cooling down overheated bodies with a combination of external packs and a fruity elixir that Cody suspected had some kind of relaxant in it; cleaning and binding easily accessed wounds; and in the cases of Kix, Echo, and Puzzle, stringing up a net of infusions that involved medical devices the likes of which Cody had never seen. He could not figure out if he was looking at a more or a less advanced technology from those he had seen in the clone medical facilities.

The shade covers on each platform offered significantly more protection against the sun than the tarpaulins had, and Cody mused that the desert had perhaps become more tolerable in the four hours since they'd begun journeying by Shempa. Or it might not have been the shade at all, but the effects of the elixir . . .

Sitting across from him—no, not sitting, more along the lines of being propped up against the rail encircling the platform—Rex wore the same stoic expression he always showed in the face of his own pain. But this time there was a hint of something a bit less . . . self-controlled. It was very close to being a stupor; and since Rex had refused any kind of pain medication, Cody considered once again that it must have been something in the drink.

An earlier scan had shown what had been expected. The swelling on the captain's side was due to broken ribs. Four of them. The breaks were not messy, but the stress and tumult of the sand storm and trying to hold onto the tarp had jarred things around enough that what had started as minor internal bleeding had grown into something more serious; but not such that the Austeniens felt there was any need for immediate treatment. Instead, they removed the upper body armor, leaving the body glove in place to constrict the flow of blood. Once they were in safer environs, where they could better handle a potential emergency, they would remove the body glove and render treatment.

Feeling that they were in better hands than he'd originally believed, Cody now allowed his thoughts to turn towards their mission and how to get word to the fleet of what had happened.

"Au-Ogusta?"

The brother turned from his scanning of the horizon—he was watching for more storms. "Yes?"

"What kind of communications do you have out here? I have to make contact with my superiors and tell them of our situation."

"We have no communications equipment at the Monastica," Au-Ogusta replied.

Cody was taken aback. For a moment, he thought perhaps the brother had misunderstood the question. "No communications? But then how do you stay in contact with the rest of your world?"

"Any message we need to send goes by courier," came the reply. "We are very self-sufficient."

"But what happens when you need to get a message off-world?" Cody pressed.

"We never have such a need."

"But your planet has that capability," Cody noted.

"In the larger cities, yes," Au-Ogusta replied. "If you want to send a message to your commanders, you will need to go to Heembab. That is the nearest population center."

"How far is that?"

"By Shempa, seven days. By foot, ten."

Cody felt the tension rising in his neck. "What about by speeder? Do you have speeders?"

Au-Ogusta shook his head with a gentle, indulgent smile. "We do not. The only speeders we have are those that pilgrims sometimes ride to come here. They are not allowed into the complex. They are parked outside, and many are ruined by the conditions."

"Are there any that still work?" Cody asked.

"There may be. I, myself, never look at them, so I do not know. You will be able to look for yourself when we arrive." After a pause, Au-Ogusta asked, "You are in charge of these men?"

"Yes. I'm Commander Cody."

"You said your ship crashed in the desert," Au-Ogusta said. "Did any of your men die in the crash?"

"No," Cody replied. "Hard as it is to believe, we haven't lost anyone yet." He consciously refused to let his gaze wander towards Kix. "I'd like to keep it that way."

"We will do our best."

From behind him, Cody heard Zinger's voice. "Commander, look."

Cody turned. He fell still.

They had just mounted the crest of a particularly high dune and now there before them, less than five klicks away, appeared a green line in the sand, accented with peaks of color: red, gold, violet, deep and rich beige.

From the air and in their desperation to avoid a catastrophic landing, neither Cody nor any of his team had really noticed anything more than an oasis in the desert. But now that they were on the ground, so close, and with the threat of immediate death removed, they could see clearly what they had only glimpsed during their descent.

What had appeared as a small patch of life from above now revealed itself to be a sizeable oasis, nearly six klicks long and one klick across at its widest. A wall, at least five meters high, surrounded the desert sanctuary; and on the southernmost end, a large and ornate gate guarded access. From his current distance and vantage point, Cody could see a series of structures within the walls, rising above the trees, with one particularly tall and light-catching edifice dominating the horizon.

"It's huge," Zinger said with a sense of awe. "I wasn't expecting this."

"Neither was I," Cody agreed. He looked to Au-Ogusta. "How many people live here?"

"There are almost a thousand brothers and twice as many sisters," came the reply. "The healing rooms can house up to ten thousand, if necessary. And the wayward homes have perhaps fifteen hundred residents at the moment. During the great festivals and holy days, there may be as many as twenty thousand pilgrims."

"Twenty thousand?"

"If it, of course, a perilous journey across the Sandheim; but for the faithful, it is a risk they are willing to take. Traveling by caravan makes it less difficult."

Sixer knit his brows. "If you're healers, why make your home so far away and difficult to get to?"

Au-Ogusta gave a gentle smile. "The Monastica is the Parent House. We have thousands of healing facilities and care houses all over the planet."

"Thousands? How—how big is your order?"

"Well over a million brothers and sisters." Au-Ogusta's voice contained not a hint of pride or arrogance. "Most of our work is done among the populations. Only those who seek special healing or desire to make a pilgrimage come here. And then there are those who are shunned and abandoned by society. Often, they find solace and a place of welcome, away from unkind eyes. Of course, all are welcome, but for many, the journey is too stressful, thus we have healing houses in the cities, where they are more readily accessible."

"But then why have a place out here at all?" Sixer asked.

"Because the brothers and sisters need a place away from society, away from all the distractions and noise and bustle, to reflect and contemplate. Prayer and meditation are great restorers of the soul, and when working with the ill and ailing, the unwanted and unloved . . . a brother or a sister needs a place of peace where the balance can be regained. "

"Are you the head of the order?" Cody asked.

Au-Ogusta laughed. "No, I am not. Fels Au-Mickiel is the First Servant of the Austeniens. Doma Maree is the First Servant of the Vervien Sisters. And she is the top authority over both orders. It was she who gave permission that we should come out to aid you." A pause, during which he turned his violet eyes to rest on Cody with unspoken curiosity. "She will be surprised to see that you are clones."

As they drew nearer to the oasis, they could begin to see figures along the tops of the walls – not guards or sentries, but more what appeared to be lookouts and curious observers.

More of the clones had risen to their feet and now lined the platform rails to get a good look. They could not fail to notice the eyes upon them, but at least there was no discernible hostility. In fact, at one point, a small group of children who'd been watching their approach from atop the wall raised their hands and waved, nickering and bouncing with excitement when several of the clones waved back.

Fives, resting on his heels beside Echo, allowed a smile to borrow its way into his expression. He could feel some sense of ease now. He had no idea what sort of medical ability to expect within the walls, but judging from what he'd seen thus far of the Austenien's care, he could at least imagine that Echo's injury was within their scope to manage.

"I'll be glad to get under that shade," he announced.

"You and me, both," Echo replied. "More than anything, I just want a wash."

Fives chuckled to himself. Echo was so fastidious.

Of course, it never occurred to Fives that he was every bit as fussy as his squad mate. And in some ways, more so.

Echo continued. "I feel like I'm covered in five layers of dirt and sand and sweat. I just want to get out of these clothes."

"You think you've got it bad," Fives rejoined. "Imagine what I feel like under this armor."

"At least you _had_ your armor to protect you," Echo reminded. "This jumpsuit doesn't do much in the way of protection. I've got sand in places it should never be."

Fives clapped him on the shoulder, relieved to hear the humor in his friend's voice. Echo's buoyancy might be a bit overbearing at times, but Fives would not have traded it for all the spice on the Mistercian Arc.

"I'm looking forward to something real to eat," Fives said. "I think if I never see a nutrient bar again, it will be too soon." A pause. "How's your leg?"

"It's good," Echo replied. He looked down at a small cylindrical contraption strapped to his right forearm. "Whatever's in this vial, it's taken the pain away. It actually . . . it feels cool. The burning is gone."

"Maybe you'll be walking on it soon," Fives offered hopefully.

They both looked up at the sound of a great grinding and creaking.

The gates were opening.

Slowly, the Shempa lumbered through the archway.

And here, the sense of wonder, if for a moment, swept away other considerations.

They had entered upon a garden sanctuary of lush fullness. Immediately inside the gate was a copse of desert trees—the sort of tall, spindly hardwoods that grow up around watering holes, their palm-like fronds splaying out in feathery patterns, rustling quietly in the slight breeze. Beyond these trees was a circular opening, and here there waited a number of finely made and sturdy carts, each drawn by a team of two equine creatures. There were dozens of men—all attired in the same style garb as Au-Ogusta; and a slightly greater number of women.

The women were all dressed alike in long plain frocks that reached almost to the ground. A wide cumber bund, nearly corset-sized, gathered the billowy material around their middles. The only distinction was that not all the frocks were the same color. Most of them wore a cornflower blue, but there were at least two whose frocks were cream-gold and one in white. They all wore their hair long and pulled back into a net ball at the nape of their necks. Like the men, they appeared to be of all ages, sizes, and colors.

"They will take you to the houses of healing now,"Au-Ogusta told Cody as the brothers and sisters began to lead the clones off the platforms and to the carts. "I will go tell the Doma that you are here. She will come quickly . . . you have a gravely injured man."

Cody had not forgotten his duty. "What about a speeder?"

"I will take you to look," Au-Ogusta replied. "But right now, you must go and let the healers examine you. I will meet you at the house of healing. I will not be long, but I must go to the Doma first." A pause as another brother approached. "This is Fels Au-Sinti. He will take you and your men now."

The transfer of men was so quick and yet so smooth that, before Cody knew it, they were all loaded onto the carts. The Shempa were already being relieved of their platforms and led to a water hole set back among a cluster of overhanging curtain trees.

Fels Au-Sinti was every bit as amiable as Fels Au-Ogusta; but it was clear that his team's job was a more thorough assessment of each man's condition and a prioritization of treatment.

The creatures now conveying them moved at a quick pace, and the journey along the main way took them at least two kilometers into the oasis. On either side there grew any number of fruit trees, more hardwoods, and scrubby herb bushes that gave off an enticing fragrance in the midday sun. A stream ran along their right, although it might not properly be called a stream. It was actually a series of springs whose boundaries had been manipulated so that all ran together, forming pockets of warm or cool water, shallows and deeps, smooths and babbles.

The ground of the oasis was not made of sand but rather composed of the exposed bedrock of a seismically active—though quiet—area. Erosion of the bedrock and the presence of the springs had created an ideal soil for abundant growth, and there were signs of ingenious cultivation at every glance.

They passed many people – men and women picking fruit or tending to small plots of crops. Away from the road, they saw smaller enclaves of people sitting together in bowed-head silence. A group a sisters pulled several small carts of exuberant little children – no more than toddlers – along the side of the road.

Cody was flabbergasted. In the midst of the desert's isolation, there rose from these springs a fountain of life that seemed as unlikely as anything he'd ever encountered before. These were not the vapor farmers of Tatooine, living their peculiar lives of voluntary solitude, growing depressed and bereft of the vigor of life. These were not the throw-offs of Abafar, derelicts whose lack of drive—or, more likely, run-ins with the law—had forever doomed them to one of the most dismal planets in the known universe.

What these people were remained to be seen, but Cody had no misgivings thus far.

At length, they came to the southern end of a large complex. To their left was a stunning structure, two stories high and stretching at least five hundred meters in length. The architecture marked it as ancient, built of cut stone and ornately decorated with an arched colonnade along the wall facing the courtyard. Each column of the colonnade displayed an etched design brought to life in brilliant colors. Fish, trees, symbols of the sun and the stars, rough hewn images of sisters ministering to the ill and injured.

Directly opposite stood an identical building. In between, a vast courtyard with a single fountain and some benches and sparsely placed trees.

On the northern end was another ancient structure, this one much grander.

This was the main house of healing, and it was the clones' destination.

Whatever they had been expecting to see judging from its exterior, once inside, those expectations could not compare with the reality.

This was not the sterile grey and white, metal and glass of Kamino. There was nothing that resembled the production-type atmosphere of the cloning facility or the associated clone medical treatment facilities that existed throughout the systems.

Here, all was warm and enveloping. It was the sort of beauty that belonged in a temple. Floors that shined like polished crystal; walls covered in colorful, delightful designs; overhead and sconce light fixtures that cast a soothing and calming aura.

All such opulence was in direct contrast to the simple appearance of the brothers and sisters who now scurried about in the performance of their callings.

Passing through a short corridor, the clones were ushered into a large, multi-bay and multi-bed room—clearly an examining room—and here, modernity and technology met nicely with the ancient. The equipment in this room was clearly far from primitive, a further extension of what the clones had seen in the field. And the brothers who were now performing the medical checks were not attired in the loose robes but in more functional clothing.

Au-Sinti directed a brother who appeared to be the senior healer directly to Kix.

The healer lifted the light band of cloth that was draped over the injury. At a single word, two other brothers began rolling the stretcher out of the room.

"Wo-wait! Wait!" This from Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch all together.

"Where are you taking him?" Jesse asked.

The healer looked momentarily perplexed. "He's injured. He's on the verge of death." This man's vernacular and command of Basic was much less formal than the other brothers. "We need to take him to surgery. Now."

"But—but we—can't one of us go with him?" Jesse asked.

"We don't allow anyone else in the operating room except the surgical team," came the reply, spoken with kindness and understanding. "We can't afford distractions." A pause. "Besides, you all need to be looked at, yourselves."

Jesse stood for an indecisive moment, but truly there was no decision to be made. He could not force his way into the operating room, and he would not waste precious seconds by arguing.

"Please do everything you can for him," he said quietly.

"I will," the healer nodded, adding, "And you should, too."

Jesse watched as the healers whisked Kix away through a pair of doors at the end of the room.

 _And you should, too._

He turned to face Hardcase and Pitch, and the question was in his eyes. What more could any of them do? Kix's fate was in the hands of the healers now. And yet, something about the healer's words took root inside him, and he felt strangely disquieted.

"I guess we wait now," he sighed.

"Come, come." Jesse felt a gentle, yet firm hand on his arm. He glanced over his shoulder to see one of the sisters, a petite woman, young and pretty, looking up at him with a serious expression. "You must come sit so the healers can examine you."

"Oh—I'm alright. I—I—"

"They will come and let you know how he is," the sister assured him. "All of you must sit now and be examined. The Sandheim is hard on all travelers."

"Really, miss, I think I'd rather skip the exam—"

"Lieutenant, do as she says." This came from Rex who was standing next to a raised examination table, leaning on one arm over the corner and holding the other arm tight at his side. He was clearly in pain, and it came through in his tone of voice. "All of you, let them look at you. I'm sure every one of us needs some kind of help."

"Including you," Cody interjected, putting his hand squarely in the middle of Rex's back. "They've been trying to get you to sit down on the damned table since we came in here." He lowered his voice and leaned close. "Now, I'm giving you an order, captain. Sit down and let them do their jobs."

Rex regarded Cody with a wry eye, but he sat. "And what about our job? We've still got that data to deliver."

"And we'll deliver it," Cody replied. "I've been talking to Au-Ogusta. He thinks he can help us out, but they won't do anything until they're sure none of us are going to keel over."

"I don't understand how they can be all the way out here and not have any communications," Rex grumbled, sounding agitated and cross. "And no transportation. They mightaswell be living in the stone ages."

That was all Cody needed to see. It took a lot to drive Rex to act in such a peckish manner, which meant that he was feeling much more pain than he was letting on.

The commander motioned to one of the healers who had been trying unsuccessfully to examine Rex and waved him back over. "He's ready now."

The healer was holding the medical scanner he had received from the brother who had accompanied Rex in. He helped Rex lie back on the table, then to the two sisters with him, "Take him to a treatment room. We need to drain the blood pooling in his side and set the collar bone. It looks like there has been some fragmentation."

The two sisters were about to comply when the entire room fell still and silent for a moment. The eyes of every brother and sister were directed towards the main door. The clones' attention followed.

Au-Ogusta had returned and was standing just inside the doorway.

With him was a woman. She was dressed liked any other sister, except that her frock was solid green with a yellow cumber bund. Her face was oval and ageless; she might have been a young woman, she might have been an old woman. There simply was no telling. Her skin was a sandalwood brown, her hair the color of coal; but instead of wearing it tied back, she had it wound about on top of her head and adorned with a single green jewel.

"Doma Maree." Au-Sinti stepped forward with a reverential bow.

"Please, carry on," the Doma said, and the rest of the brothers and sisters returned to their tasks. Au-Ogusta led her to stand before Cody, and there was something very proper in her manner, very dulcet in her tone. "These are our guests?"

"Yes, Doma," Au-Ogusta replied. "This is Commander Cody of the Grand Army of the Republic. He is in charge of these men."

Cody wasn't sure how to greet her. Given the reactions of the brothers and sisters upon the Doma's entrance, he felt some additional courtesy was in order, and so he gave a slight, awkward bow.

"Doma Maree," he said. "I'm honored to meet you."

Much to his surprise, Doma Maree returned a much deeper bow. "The honor is mine, Commander. We are all humbled by your presence. We have never had the privilege to serve those who stand between us and destruction. I hope we can offer you assistance and healing for your men."

Cody was speechless for several seconds. Her words were almost incomprehensible. Never before had Republic troops received this kind of welcome and praise, not even from the populations they had protected directly. And he certainly had not imagined that a spiritual order of healers would have many kind things to say about men whose job it was to fight and kill and destroy.

At last, he managed an appreciative nod. "I thank you for everything your people have done for us so far. They've been very helpful. It's important that we get in touch with our fleet and let them know what's happened. Au-Ogusta said he might be able to help me with that."

"I am confident he will be able to help you," the Doma replied. "Now, if you will excuse me. I must see the injured."

Here, Au-Sinti spoke up. "We've already taken one into surgery. His condition was very grave."

"I will go there first."

Both Au-Sinti and Au-Ogusta accompanied her out of the room, but it was not long before they returned, leading Cody to fear the worst.

Then, inexplicably, the Doma stopped in front of Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch, regarding them as if she could see something not visible to the naked eye.

"You will need to pray for him," she said simply before moving over to where Rex's team was about to wheel him out of the room.

The three squad mates looked at each other with bafflement.

Prayer? What business did prayer have in the life of a clone? It might have its place here among these religious types, but when the blaster bolts started flying and brothers fell dead and injured on all sides, a trooper wanted something concrete to pin his hopes on.

Even the Jedi didn't pray. They meditated.

Jesse, seeing that Hardcase and Pitch were looking at him to make sense of what the Doma had said, could only shrug. He knew nothing of prayer. He saw no value in it, no practical use. And even if he had thought it worthy, he had no experience with it. He wouldn't even know where to begin.

To shake off the unease, the three squad mates turned their attention as the Doma approached their captain and laid her hand on his forehead while he fidgeted and looked uncomfortable. After several seconds, she announced, "He will need to stay."

She moved from clone to clone, patient to patient, repeating the same process. When she came to Echo, Puzzle, Keeper, and Little Ride, she gave the simple instruction each time. "He will need to stay." What Cody had not been expecting was for her to make this pronouncement after laying her hand on Gernot, who had not shown a single sign of injury or distress.

Cody, who had kept close behind her as she made her rounds, asked out of earshot, "Is something wrong with him?"

"Nothing so dangerous that you need be concerned," the Doma replied. "But there is an infection somewhere inside him. He is also suffering dehydration and exhaustion to a greater degree than the others. I would like to keep him in the healing houses for the next days to make him well again." She turned to Au-Ogusta. "I will send a team of Beginners to prepare quarters for our guests on the west garden ellipse. They should stay in the healing rooms until they have been hydrated and their minor injuries treated, and then you are to show them where they will be staying. They can join us for the evening meal if they feel up to it. Get them suitable clothing and have the brothers clean their armor."

"What about the speeders?" Cody asked. "It's absolutely critical that I get in touch with my commanding general."

"I can take you to see them now while the rest are being treated," Au-Ogusta offered, but he looked to Doma Maree for permission.

And that permission was forthcoming, with a condition. "Commander, please agree to be looked over first, and then certainly, Fels Au-Ogusta can show you what little we have in the way of mechanical transport."

Cody found this reasonable, for he knew he was running now purely on adrenaline and close to collapse, himself. "I agree."

With that, Doma Maree inclined her head. "We will take good care of you and your men, Commander. It is the least we can do to repay all that you have sacrificed for our safety."

With that, the Doma exited the room.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Dear Reader, A couple notes. The oasis is modeled after the Botanical Gardens along the Nile in Egypt (one of my favorite places). However, the clones' quarters are a direct reference to the Ceiba Tops rain forest "resort" on the Peruvian Amazon. Even the name is a parallel. Not that I expect anyone to check them out, but if you want to see what I am trying to describe, they can both be found on the net. Peace, CS**_

Chapter 12 The Shade Trees

" _I am just a stranger in a promised land.  
I am only learning a game with rules I don't understand.  
Going round in circles, I've been round before.  
I am lost in so many ways, I can walk no more."_

 _Light of the World  
_ Alan Parsons

* * *

Rex didn't remember the moment he'd lost consciousness. He only vaguely remembered the healer explaining the surgery to him, assuring him that everything would turn out well, and remarking conversationally about Rex's abundance of scars from previous injuries. Such was the life of a clone – or at least, a clone like Rex.

Then he had awoken to find himself lying in what might have been the most comfortable bed he'd ever slept in. It felt so good, he was tempted to not open his eyes, to just keep on resting, breathing in the fresh smell of clean sheets and indulging just the right degree of softness.

But the sound of someone moving beside the bed brought his eyes open, and he saw Cody about to sit down in a chair against the wall.

"Cody."

Cody gave the one-sided curl of his lip that sometimes qualified as a smile and stepped up next to the bed. "It looks like I have perfect timing."

Rex's expression was just short of laughter. "What are you wearing?"

"Oh, this . . . just something until they have my armor ready to go," the commander replied, looking down at the combination of trousers and knee-length, long-sleeved tunic that the brothers had provided him. The material was light and airy, very comfortable and protective against the heat. He didn't have quite the same admiration for the footwear, which were a type of sandal with a single broad strap over the top of the foot. He had trouble keeping them on, and they left most of the foot exposed and accessible to the dirt and sand.

"Your armor?"

Cody could see the cloudiness in Rex's eyes and hear the imprecision in his voice. Whether it was the anesthesia still wearing off or pain medication kicking in, it was clear the captain was still hovering in the twilight.

"Yeah, they're cleaning all our armor, and the body gloves." Cody smiled guiltily. "I wouldn't want that job."

"Did you contact the general?"

" _You really are out of it,"_ Cody mused silently. "No, not yet." He changed the subject. "How do you feel?"

"Enh . . . good. I feel okay. I'm hungry. Can I get something to eat?"

"I'll check with the sisters on duty," Cody replied.

Rex closed his eyes and appeared to be drifting off, but he then asked, "What about Kix?"

"He's still in surgery. It's only been a couple hours," Cody replied. "You were in and out very quickly. The healers are incredible. We got lucky, I'll say that much." A pause. "Echo's in the room next to you. Puzzle is still having his leg set. Little Ride is in the room on the other side of Echo's, and they just want to keep him for a few days, keep an eye on him. Gernot is in the room on the opposite side, so you're all close together."

He waited to see if Rex would say anything else, but he didn't.

"Au-Ogusta is getting ready to show us where we'll be staying, and then he's taking me to look at the speeders, so I'm stepping out and I'll be back to let you know what I find," Cody announced.

Rex murmured some sort of acknowledgment.

Cody turned to leave just as the healer overseeing Rex's care entered with two sisters.

"He was just awake," Cody informed him.

"Yes, the monitor showed us," the man smiled. "He is going to be a fast healer."

Cody simpered knowingly. "That's good, because he's a very rotten patient."

* * *

"Ohh, now _that's_ stylish," Hardcase said, drawing his words out in a teasing fashion.

"Well, I look better in it than you do," Pitch replied.

"You both look ridiculous," Jesse said, as if settling a dispute. "I, on the other hand, can carry off just about anything."

They were, of course, referring to the clothing the Austeniens had provided; but the playful mockery of their appearance was a weak attempt to take their minds off more frightening subjects – and all three of them knew it.

Two hours had passed since Kix had been taken into surgery. Very early on, a healer had come out to ask for blood. He'd explained that they could synthesize any blood type, but it took time; and time was not on their side in this situation. With so many perfect matches right there and readily available, it would be faster and easier to simply draw blood.

Since then, the same healer had come out once more and announced that there were complications of infection and a great amount of contamination in both entry and exit wounds, so it would take more time than they'd originally anticipated.

All of which had left Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch restless and anxious. So when Commander Cody returned from his visit to Rex and announced that they would all be going with Au-Ogusta to their accommodations, little wonder it was that none of Kix's squad mates had any desire or intention of leaving.

Cody was understanding but firm. "There's nothing you can do by staying here and being miserable. Come see where you'll be staying and then you can come straight back. Maybe by then, he'll be out of surgery."

They balked.

"Commander, if something goes wrong . . . we want to be close by," Jesse explained.

"And you will be," Cody assured them. "Like I said, you can come straight back. But I think you three especially need a break. I'm giving you an order."

Jesse had never disobeyed an order or even considered it; and he would not do so now.

"Yes, Commander."

"Trust me, I'm sure if anything changes, they'll come find you," Cody said.

Au-Ogusta led the clones through a series of hallways until they exited the healing house through a door on the northern end that opened onto a sort of botanical garden, interspersed with dozens of buildings of various sizes and designs. Directly ahead was an edifice of such magnificence as to rival the Jedi Temple.

"What is that building?" Cody inquired.

"That is the Taber," Au-Ogusta replied. "Our place of worship."

From just behind Cody, Three Point spoke up. "What, uh, what exactly do you worship here? Are you Force users?"

"Do you mean to ask if we are Jedi?" Au-Ogusta posed, sounding amused. "No, we are not Jedi. We recognize the existence of the Force, but we do not worship it. Like all else, it is a created power. We revere the One who created it, who created all things."

"Like a god?" Three Point supposed.

Au-Ogusta inclined his head. "Yes."

Cody, seeing that his pilot was about to ask another question, made a subtle gesture to wave him off. The last thing he wanted was a theological debate that might risk offending their hosts.

As they passed through the three hundred meter length of garden, the sound of rhythmic speaking—chanting—could be heard coming from one of the smaller capellas. Walking by the open doors, the men were able to see inside where a group of perhaps thirty or forty sisters were all kneeling, heads bowed, hands clasped in front of them.

"What are they doing?" Bounce asked.

"They are praying," Au-Ogusta replied. "They have been asked to pray especially for your friend – the one who is badly wounded. They will continue to do so until he is healed." He let his eyes drift over the rest of the group. "In the Taber, there are over a hundred praying for safety and healing for all of you."

"But . . . why?" This from Three Point.

"It is what we do," Au-Ogusta replied.

"And that's—that's, em, very good of you," Cody stammered, not wanting to get into this kind of discussion. "We can use all the help we can get." There, that was as noncommittal and diplomatic an answer as anyone could give.

Au-Ogusta recognized Cody's discomfort, and he understood it. He imagined that, in the life of a clone, the metaphysical carried little weight, if any. Working with the Jedi might have opened them up to the existence of the intangible; but it seemed clear—at least to Au-Ogusta—that these clones had not even the tiniest jot of spiritual or religious training or inclination. And there was no reason to expect otherwise. They had been created to fight, not to ponder the existence of primary movers. They were in awe of the grandness of what they were seeing, but they could not comprehend the purpose behind it. And in that way, they possessed a certain . . .

Innocence might not be the word, but something akin to it. A singularity of their own purpose that Au-Ogusta found admirable, even as he found the purpose itself detestable.

"Come, your quarters are not much further."

He led them around the Taber on the west side, and here they picked up a narrow shaded path that ran close to the outer wall.

Jesse considered that they had walked at least a kilometer, and he was fretting that they were getting too far away . . . just where were these accommodations?

And then the pathway opened up and there on their left was a row of very attractive block structures, single-story, each offset slightly back from the one beside it, rocky gardens with sparse desert flowers blooming in front. Behind them and between the wall was a line of tall trees, whose layered branches gave them the appearance of holding up green clouds of leaves.

"These are the Seba Tops," Au-Ogusta announced. "There are ten units in the front row and ten units in the back row. Further down, there is the next set, and those rooms are also ready. You have your choice of any you choose."

"How many men to a room?" Cody asked.

"However many you please, but the sisters have supplied them as one per room," Au-Ogusta replied. "I will leave you to yourselves to settle in, and I will be back before the evening meal to take any who wish to eat." He looked to Cody. "I believe you want to go look at the speeders now."

"Yes."

"Oh—uh! Is there—is there anything to eat _now_?" Bounce spoke up.

Au-Ogusta nodded. "Your rooms should be well-stocked."

* * *

"You weren't kidding when you said the desert ruined most of these," Cody stated. He went from one broken down speeder to the next. "How long have these been here?"

"Some have been here for many years. Others, only a few weeks," Au-Ogusta replied. "Most pilgrims who come by speeder either leave by speeder within a few days; or if they stay longer, they usually must return by Shempa or Losla."

"Losla?"

"The animals you saw pulling the carts." Au-Ogusta shook the sand off one possibility. "Most pilgrims come by foot or by Shempa or Losla. They know the beasts are most at-home in the desert. They can go many days without water, and they enjoy the heat and sun. Here, try this one."

Cody leaned over the speeder and pressed the ignition. The sparkers ignited and immediately died. Cody tried again, but this time there was no spark. "I'll have Zinger and Tip take a look. They're pretty handy with stuff like this. Maybe they can get it running. Are there others?"

"We can check."

"Are you sure there isn't even one speeder you took inside the walls?" Cody asked, hoping against hope.

"Not one, Commander," Au-Ogusta said. "We eschew any form of mechanized transport. Even our supplies and the raw materials for constructing our medical devices are brought by beasts of burden. Because of our aversion to such transports, we do not allow them within our walls. We would be overrun with vehicles with no place to store them."

"Well . . . I guess I'll keep looking."

"You will only have another two or three hours," Au-Ogusta stated.

Cody looked up. "Why is that? The sun looks like it's at least still four hours above the horizon."

"Do you see the orangish haze? That is another stand storm. If the breeze continues as it is right now, it will come this direction."

"I see," Cody said. "So, if I find a speeder that might work, will you permit me to bring it inside to keep it safe?"

"That we will permit," Au-Ogusta said with a nod.

"Uh, we _will_ be safe in there, right?"

"Yes, the Monastica has survived many thousands of years of the desert and its tempests," came the reply. "We will be quite safe. But if you wish to keep looking and move some within the walls before the storm comes, we must work quickly."

"Right, then let's get to it."

* * *

"I feel like the king." Tip flopped back on top of the large bed and stared up at the ceiling of his richly appointed room. "Does your room look like this, too?"

In the doorway, Bounce leaned against the jam. "Just like it. I don't think we've ever stayed in anything like this. I don't know how I'm going to be able to go back to sleeping in the barracks after this."

"Did you see all the fruit and nuts and things to drink over there?" Tip asked.

"I already ate all mine," Bounce replied. "And drank it all, too. I think that red stuff is an alcoholic beverage."

Tip chuckled. "Did you come over to eat and drink all mine now?"

"Neh, not unless you don't plan to eat it. I'm starving. What time is the dinner bell?"

"You never change. Go ahead. Help yourself."

Bounce walked over to laden table and helped himself to a piece of fruit. "These things are delicious."

"Do you even know what it is?"

"No idea. I just know it's good."

At that moment, Jesse appeared in the doorway. "We're heading back up to the healing house. Let the commander know, will you?"

Tip sat up. "We'll tell him, yeah." A pause. "Let us know . . . let us know what happens."

Bounce was less tentative, but then again, he had always been known for speaking his mind without fear of the consequences. He said what he felt, and if it turned out he was wrong . . . well, he'd never been wrong up to this point. "He's gonna be okay. He'll pull through. I'm sure of it."

Jesse gave a nod, but his face showed no indication of whether or not he agreed with Bounce. He rejoined Hardcase and Pitch on the path and they began walking. They had just passed the Taber, hearing low-key singing coming from within, when they encountered Au-Sinti coming from the opposite direction.

"Ah, I was coming to find you. Your friend is out of surgery."

Jesse felt his pulse quicken. "Is he alright?"

"He is stable," Au-Sinti replied. "I will go with you to the main house. His healers are still there. They can tell you the details."

"Is he going to live?" Jesse pressed.

"I cannot answer that. Come, we shall go speak to the healers."

They crossed the botanical garden and came to the house of healing. Here, they followed Au-Sinti back through the labyrinth of halls until they came to a small room adjacent to the larger one they had all been in earlier.

"Wait here." Au-Sinti disappeared behind a pair of swinging doors. A minute later, he returned with the two healers Jesse recognized as Kix's doctors.

"I'm Fils Au-Josat, head surgeon for your friend. You want to know how he is," the first said in his direct and easy vernacular.

The three clones nodded.

"He made it through the surgery fairly well," the healer began. "How many days had he been injured before you got him here?"

"I think—it was three?" Jesse answered. "I'm not sure."

"The injury itself was manageable," Au-Josat continued. "A lot of damage, but reparable. What complicated things was that he was so weak and dehydrated by the time he got here, he'd lost so much blood that his body was struggling just to . . . keep the blood pumping. He was on the verge of organ failure in a number of areas. There was a lot of infection, too, around where the rod had gone through, and it had traveled in his blood to other parts of the body. He's on heavy antibiotics. We'll see how well he's responding within a few hours. Right now, he's got a tough uphill slog, but there's still a good likelihood he'll pull through. You all did an amazing job keeping him alive." The healer looked at them one-by-one. "Your friend should be dead. Whatever you did, you gave him a fighting chance."

"So you—you think he'll survive," Hardcase prompted, just to make sure he'd understood correctly.

"He has a very good chance."

"Can we see him?" Jesse asked.

"Of course. He's been moved into continual care. You can see him there, but he won't be conscious," Au-Josat explained. "That's still a day or two away, perhaps three."

The other healer spoke up. "But it is important that you are there, close to him." This healer had the more formal speech and manner of the other brothers. He also appeared older and with a certain wisdom in his eyes that went beyond the skill of medicine.

"This is Fels Au-Cepha. He assisted me in performing the surgery. He's an internist, among other things. He'll be overseeing your friend's continuing care," Au-Josat introduced. "And now, if you have no questions for me, I would like to meditate before the evening meal."

"Uh, no, no questions. Thank you, doctor—eh, brother—I'm not sure what to call you, what to call any of you," Jesse stumbled through his gratitude.

"Brother has a nice ring to it," Au-Josat grinned. "But don't worry yourself on that account. Doctor, healer, Fels, or by our names . . . we aren't particular." He turned to leave, but a thought occurred to him first. "By the way, what's your friend's name?"

"Kix," Jesse replied, adding, "He's a medic."

Au-Josat gave a slight nod. "Well, Kix has a strong will to live. I think I see why." With that, he excused himself and departed.

Au-Cepha spoke up. "Come with me. I will show you to his room."

"Will we be able to stay with him?"

"Certainly."

Jesse was surprised, for in his experience with clone medical facilities, there were very small time windows for visitors, and certainly tight control over anyone in the critical care units.

"I will have one of the brothers bring up plates from the evening meal," Au-Cepha told them. "I imagine you must be very hungry, but I think you will not want to leave him, and he will be glad that you are there."

"But . . . Brother Au-Josat said he's still unconscious," Pitch pointed out.

"Yes. But he will know you are there . . . on a deeper level."

The confusion and color rose in the three clones' cheeks.

"We're just simple soldiers" Jesse deferred. "We, uh, we don't know anything about that."

"That is alright," Au-Cepha replied. "Understanding is not necessary for a thing to be true."

He led them up to the second floor and past a bustling nurses' station where at least a dozen sisters were busily occupied with their duties. He went into a room several doors past the station.

The clones hesitated on the threshold.

Au-Cepha turned and seeing their trepidation, motioned them inside. "Come in. There is room for all three of you."

Jesse took a deep, steadying breath and led the way inside. He had braced himself for the worst, envisioning the tubes and wires and machines of the clone medical facilities. What he encountered instead was subtle and calming with none of the fearful aspects of most critical care units.

There was one bed in the room with only a single monitoring console on the wall beside it. A rectangular frame extended from the wall over the bed, and from this frame there emanated a field of orange light. It had a mist-like appearance, and it fully enveloped Kix, lying on the bed as if asleep. There were no breathing tubes, no infusion lines, no pumps . . . it was a peaceful environment.

In fact, if he hadn't known already, Jesse never would have been able to tell Kix was injured. Still, seeing him there, knowing there was danger lurking even now in the deceptively tranquil scene before him, yet unable to quell a sense of relief that he knew was most definitely premature, he could feel his insides twisting into knots.

Au-Cepha pressed a button on the panel, and in less than five seconds, a sister appeared.

"Bring some more chairs for our friends, Sister," he ordered. "And I think they will want to have their meals here. Would you please send word to the kitchen."

"Yes, Fels."

Pitch had moved up and was standing directly beside the bed. "What is this?" he asked, referring to the orange light.

"We call it a cold field," Au-Cepha replied. "It actually has many functions. It regulates the body temperature, speeding or slowing functions as the injuries dictate, creating a sort of stasis field. It provides a sterile environment and destroys harmful bacteria. And it performs cellular regeneration on a molecular level."

"Can we . . . put our hands in it?"

"Under normal circumstances, you would be able to do so. The stasis field would cause you no harm. And the cellular regeneration is individually programmed based off the patient's DNA. Therefore, if I put my hand in . . . " Au-Cepha demonstrated, " . . . nothing will happen to me. But since you, as clones, all share the same DNA, the atomic scan would seek out any abnormalities in your own molecular structure and begin repairs. We have restricted that function of the field to the part of his body through which the foreign object passed. Otherwise, it would begin correcting any molecular irregularities." The brother gave a sidelong grin. "Such as tattoos."

"Wow, that's, uh, that's powerful stuff you're talking, doc," Pitch noted.

"So, we can't touch him," Jesse concluded.

"I would not recommend it," Au-Cepha replied.

"Here we are, and we can't offer any kind of support," Hardcase grumbled.

Au-Cepha turned towards them, his hazel eyes reflecting the serenity of his soul. "Physical contact is a crucial part of living and also of healing. But it is not the most important. There are greater connections than flesh-to-flesh. Your bonds are very strong. I admit I am surprised, for I would not have thought that clones would feel such ties. If I can feel what emanates from you, do you doubt that he can feel it, as well?"

"I guess . . . I guess that makes sense," Jesse said, though his true thought was that it made no sense at all.

Au-Cepha was not fooled. "Not yet. Not yet, but it will." A pause. "I must go check on my other patients. Stay here with him as long as you like, as long as you need."

As long as _you_ need. Jesse thought it was interesting that he and Hardcase and Pitch were being identified as ones in need – not just Kix. He waited until Au-Cepha had left the room before daring to join Pitch beside the bed.

"Do either of you have any idea what he was just talking about?" he asked.

"It sounded like more Force talk, you know," Pitch replied, "All that stuff about being bound together. General Skywalker's said things like that a few times."

"Yeah, but we're—we're—our bonds are the bonds of brothers, fighting men," Jesse stated emphatically. "It's the result of being raised and training together. If we'd had different batchers, we'd have different attachments."

"Well, that takes the cool out of it," Hardcase smirked. "I dunno, I can't really imagine having other squad mates."

"Yeah, if Top heard you saying that, he'd chew your ears off, Jesse," Pitch added.

"I wish he was here now," Jesse sighed.

"Yeah, can you imagine? He'd be all into this," Hardcase said, affecting the enthusiasm of his absent squad mate. "He'd be out there leading those chants and prayers and probably singing to the moon. Damn, he'd probably convert! He believes in all that spiritual stuff."

"You mean, superstitious stuff. There's a difference," Jesse corrected.

"Eh, you have to believe in one to believe in the other, don't you?" Hardcase shrugged.

"I don't think that's how it works," Jesse replied, a hint of amusement breaking through.

"Well, right now I'm willing to believe in anything if it will help Kix," Pitch said resolutely.

Jesse eyed him curiously. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I can give this prayer thing a try . . . if someone shows me how to do it."

"Well, don't look at me," Hardcase waved off. "The only prayer I know is that my blaster doesn't overheat and jam."

Pitch laughed. "Yeah, I know that prayer, too."

Jesse smiled and shook his head. "I guess that really is a _kind_ of prayer, isn't it?"

"Probably not the kind they have in mind here," Hardcase pointed out.

"Maybe the kind they have in mind really work," Pitch suggested. Then, despite Au-Cepha's warning, he reached into the shield and gave Kix's shoulder a quick squeeze. "Anyway, I think he'd want me to find out, eh?" He headed for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To find someone who can show me. What the hell do—oops. I mean, who knows, it just might work." He stopped in the doorway. "I won't be long. Like the brother said, I think it's best for us to stay close by."

"Don't make a spectacle of yourself," Jesse warned in a voice that indicated he knew enough about Pitch to feel such a cautionary note was necessary.

Pitch winked. "Well, now you're making it hard."

 ** _I admit I love the title for this chapter, and I hope you were able to figure out who the shade trees are . . . the very protective three of them! Hoo, there you go! Some of my favorite parts to write are when the clones try to figure out what to make of the spiritual aspects of the Brothers and Sisters. Some are cautious, others are gung-ho, others just find the whole thing confusing, and then there's Hardcase . . . 'nuff said! Thanks for reading! Please leave a review if you're so inclined._**


	13. Chapter 13

_**Dear Reader, first a word of thanks for my steady reviewer, LongLivetheClones. I truly appreciate you taking the time to post such thoughtful feedback. It keeps me motivated to continue posting! Now, this is sort of a quiet chapter to set the scene for what is to come. It also gives another little hint at the history of Saber Squad. Lastly, my musings on clones and their experience with women . . . I like to write such short interludes. Honestly, the introduction of 79s in the Lost Missions opened up so much fertile ground for great clone moments that it totally changed my outlook on clone social life, which you will see more in future chapters. I hope you enjoy! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 13 Scattered Seed

" _This life prepares the strangest things,  
the dreams we dream of what life brings.  
The highest highs can turn around  
to sow love's seeds on stony ground."_

 _Breathe  
_ Midge Ure

* * *

"Do you think you can get either one of them running again?" Cody asked.

Zinger tilted his head. "I don't know, Commander. It's a long shot. They don't have anything here to repair these things."

Tip looked up from the speeder he was tinkering with. "I think this one is a lost cause, Sir. Do we have time to go back out and see if there's a better one?"

"That storm was getting close," Cody replied. "I think it's better if we keep working on these. I don't want to risk being outside the walls when it hits."

"Commander, do you think we can take a break for their evening meal?" Zinger asked. "I don't know about you, but I'm famished."

Cody nodded. "Even if we do get one of these running, we won't be able to go anywhere until the storm passes. Yeah, let's head back to the quarters. Au-Ogusta said he'd come get us when it was time to eat."

They walked to the end of the facility; Au-Ogusta had found them space in the Losla stables to work on the speeders. The stables were near the southern gate, so it was going to be quite a walk back to the quarters; and being that it took them past the main house of healing, it was unspoken that they would stop in.

The three of them—all 212th—decided to go visit their own first. They found Little Ride asleep, his deep and even breathing a good sign of peaceful slumber. Not wanting to disturb him, they gained assurance from a nurse who had come into the room, that he was doing very well; and from there, they went next door to see Puzzle, who, not surprisingly, was also asleep after the surgery to set his leg.

And then they went to visit Gernot, one of Rex's troops, who was wide awake and leafing through an old hard-copy book.

"I'm surprised you're not asleep, too," Tip said, as they entered the room. "LR and Puzzle are out cold."

"I'm on my way," Gernot replied. "I'm just waiting to get something to eat first."

Now that he had a chance to look closely, Cody could see what he had missed before. Gernot was drawn and pale; and although he maintained an upbeat attitude, he could not hide the fact that he was struggling to put a good face on it.

"You should have told us you were feeling bad," the commander chastised him.

"I didn't think it was anything to worry about," he replied. "We had guys who were in much worse shape than me."

"That's no excuse," Cody told him. "We look out for each other. Next time, make sure you tell one of us."

"Yes, Commander."

"Good. Now, get some rest and we'll be back to see you again tomorrow."

"Yes, Commander. Oh, Commander? How is the captain?"

"He was doing well a few hours ago, but we're headed to see him after we leave here."

But they did not go next to Rex's room. Instead, they went to visit Echo.

And here, they found an interesting scene. It seemed there was a little party of sorts going on in the room.

Not surprisingly, Fives was there, leaning his shoulder against the wall at the head of the bed. But also present were three sisters and two brothers, none of whom appeared to be performing any duties at the moment; all of whom stood gathered like a well-amused audience.

"Well, this is a popular spot. What's going on in here?" Cody asked.

Fives gave a helpless shrug. "Echo's entertaining."

One of the sisters, a tall attractive woman, middle aged, with angular features and bright eyes, spoke in a voice brimming with mirth. "He certainly is. I can't remember the last time I laughed this much."

Cody raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"He's been telling us stories," the sister went on. "He's very good at it."

The commander looked at Fives. "Stories about what?" he asked, fearing that Echo might be regaling them with accounts of their battles, perhaps revealing classified or protected information.

But Fives' answer put him at ease. "About Domino Squad."

Cody chuckled. "Yes, I guess that would be entertaining." A pause. "I'm no doctor, but I take it this means you're feeling pretty good."

"Yes, Commander," Echo replied, beaming, clearly enjoying himself and all the attention. He'd probably never had so many people so eager to hear him speak. "There's hardly any pain in the leg. Au-Frate said he thinks I'll be up and on the move in a couple days."

"That's fast healing."

"Well, it was already healing pretty well before we crashed," Echo pointed out.

"Hm. Well, don't let me keep you from entertaining your guests," the commander quipped. "We've got a few more visits to make."

He, Tip and Zinger left the room. Fives followed.

Out in the hallway, Cody shook his head in wonder. "I think Echo's found his niche."

Fives was nonplussed. "What can I say, Commander? I never would have guessed it, but . . . Echo is a charmer. Both the brothers and the sisters just can't get enough of him." He looked and sounded as if he could not believe the words that were coming out of his mouth.

"Well, that's good," Zinger grinned. "That will keep him occupied, and I'll bet it speeds up his recovery."

Fives lowered his voice. "Have you been to see Kix yet?"

"That's our next stop."

"Jesse and Hardcase are in there with him. Pitch told me the doc said he thinks Kix will make it, but I'm not sure the guys believe him." A pause. "Pitch went off to find someone to, uh, to teach him how to _pray_."

Cody groaned. "Oh, that can't be good."

Tip deferred. "I don't know. Pitch is a pretty likeable guy."

"Yes, but one wrong word could wreck our welcome very quickly," Cody frowned. "Do you know where he went?"

Fives shook his head. "It's Pitch. He could have gone anywhere."

"Yeah, I guess it makes no sense to try and find him," Cody conceded. "Hopefully, he can't do too much harm. Come on, let's go see how Kix is doing."

* * *

" _A couple well-placed Thermal Annihilator Bombs would work good on that. Hm, it would take at least four tons of CT to even make a crack in the foundation of that one."_

It was a terrible habit, and he knew it. A gruesome habit.

He just couldn't help himself.

As a demolitions expert, Pitch saw every structure, every natural feature in terms of the best way to destroy it. His squad mates ribbed him endlessly about his one-track mind, teasing him that there were better tracks upon which to concentrate, tracks with soft curves and many nice things to look at and touch.

Of course, it was all talk, for not one of them had what could be considered _experience_ with the opposite sex. The demands of war left little time for dalliances, and for front-line combat troops, there were not many occasions for socializing with female populations, no matter what planet they were on. Clone bars like 79s on Coruscant had only sprung into being months after the start of the war when it became apparent that there was a good deal of profit to be made from servicing the needs of millions of men in the prime of life, looking for diversions from their highly regimented existence.

But even such watering holes as 79s were patronized mainly by clones, with only a smattering of females—females, the likes of which any self-respecting clone would avoid. Alas, there were many clones with no self-respect and, hence, the _smattering_ had their pick of the offerings.

Except when it came to the 501st.

A sort of elitism had grown up around the troopers of the blue insignia.

The 501st wasn't a unit you just got _assigned_ to. You were chosen, selected. Handpicked by no one less than the most outstanding officer the GAR had ever known, under the command of the greatest general in the Ministry of Defense. 501st troopers didn't consider it boasting or braggadocio when they said their captain and general were the best. Nor did they view their assertions as merely what every clone would say of his own commanding officers.

The legionnaires of the 501st truly and unabashedly believed that theirs was the best unit with the best personnel the GAR had to offer.

And as such, they deserved the best of everything.

Including women.

Just what constituted the "best" of women was something most of them still hadn't figured out.

Pitch, among them. Which explained why, now, as he walked through the botanical garden, he found more to draw his attention among the various buildings (and their destruction potential) than he did among the plentiful and very often attractive women passing by him.

Whether by intent or subconsciously, he found himself standing outside the capella they had passed earlier, the capella wherein the sisters were praying for Kix, as Au-Ogusta had told him and his brothers.

"This is as good a place as any," he said under his breath, and without hesitation, he went inside.

At first, one or two heads turned in his direction, but the prayer was not interrupted. Then, slowly, more and more stole sisters glances in his direction. And still, the prayer continued.

He stood observantly in the back of the room for nearly a minute before edging onto the end of a bench of four sisters, all of whom courteously scooted down to make room for him.

He listened to them chant, two sisters leading the prayers, the others giving responses. Then, they all went from sitting to kneeling, and he followed suit, finding it funny.

At length, he could feel the sister beside him staring at him, so he turned his head to regard her with an open expression, hoping she would take him under her wing. She was an elderly woman, by human standards, probably somewhere in her 80s; but her eyes were clear and lucid as she regarded him unflinchingly.

For a long moment, she scrutinized him; and it occurred to Pitch that she was studying his face. He had not given any consideration to what she—and the others—might think of a man whose shaved head sported a crown's ring of tattoos of various explosive devices. Then again, a religious sister probably would not even recognize what the images were.

A few seconds later, she stood up and gently ushered him out the door.

Pitch thought he was being thrown out, but when the sister drew him down to her level—she was very tiny, he could see that was not the case. She looked pleased and joyful.

"Why have you come to us?" she asked.

Pitch, direct and tactless, replied, "I want to learn how to do that."

"To do . . . what?"

"What you ladies are doing in there," he said. "I want to learn how to pray."

"That is a good desire, a just desire," the sister replied. "Tell me why you want to learn how to pray."

"Because I want to help my friend. I'm willing to try anything."

The sister smiled and the wrinkles around her eyes deepened. For a moment, she reminded Pitch of Ninety-Nine, a maintenance clone back on Kamino, an experiment gone wrong whose developmental matrix had produced a malformed man of rapid aging. Such mistakes happened when the production of millions of mass-produced beings was involved; it was expected and dealt with. A clone brought forth nowadays with such shortcomings as Ninety-Nine displayed would not be given the chance of making a contribution of any kind. Such a clone would be immediately eliminated.

Pitch grit his teeth. How well he knew the dispassionate manner with which the Kaminoans dealt with those in whom they deemed a flaw. Their idea of what disqualified the right to exist fell far wide of any decent moral code . . .

" _Stop. Stop, you didn't come here to think about that."_ He commanded himself silently, then to the sister, "I figure, it can't hurt."

She gave a close-mouthed laugh. "Not the best answer I have heard, but not the worst. Very well, come and I will show you."

Pitch made to open the door to go back inside, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"No, not back inside. Not yet. You are only a beginner."

* * *

Cody stood at the foot of Rex's bed. "You're looking a bit better. More alert, at least. Did you get some rest?"

 _Uh-oh_. The surliness was already on display. "Who can rest with all that noise next door? What the hell's going on over there?"

Cody tried not to laugh at his friend's grouchy mood. "Echo's bringing the house down."

"Echo? _Echo?_ "

"He's got a full house," Zinger stated. "And they're enchanted with him."

"With _Echo_?"

"Believe me, we were just as surprised as you are," Cody confirmed. "He's got sisters and brothers in there, and he's telling them stories about Domino Squad. They're eating it up."

"Incredible."

Cody turned to Zinger and Tip. "Why don't you two head back to the quarters. I'll be right behind you. Be careful, don't get caught out in that storm."

The two departed, and Rex looked at Cody with questioning eyes. "Storm?"

"Another sandstorm."

"Hm." A pause. "So, where do they have you staying?"

"You should see the rooms they have us in," Cody replied. "They're a bit of a walk from here, but they're incredible. This whole place is amazing."

"What about contacting the fleet?" Rex asked.

"We found some speeders we may be able to get into working order," Cody replied. "If we can't get something working in the next day or two, we're going to have to go out by foot or on their animals."

"It'll be better than lying here—"

"I'm not talking about you when I say 'we', Rex. You're definitely not going to be in any kind of condition to go back out there," Cody stated authoritatively.

"I'll be fine," Rex protested. "In a couple days, I'll be ready to go."

Cody pursed his lips. "Huh, I thought you were back in your senses, but apparently, that's not so."

"I've been injured a lot worse than this and was back on my feet in a matter of hours. Don't forget Saleucami—" Rex began, but Cody cut him off.

"In fact, I _would_ rather forget it," Cody replied. "You got lucky, and that's the long and short of it." He returned to the topic at hand. "At any rate, we need to get where they have communications that can put us in touch with the fleet. Otherwise, it's going to take a long time for them to find us. Au-Ogusta said the nearest place with that capability is a city called Heembab. He said it's 7-10 days without a speeder. With one, it's probably less than a day. My plan is to take Moog and Three Point with me. Au-Ogusta will give us a guide."

"I guess that sounds alright," Rex conceded.

"I'm glad it meets with your approval," Cody replied sardonically.

There was a brief silence between the two men, then Rex spoke seriously. "Have you been to see Kix?"

Cody nodded. "Yeah."

"How's it looking? Do you think he's going to make it?"

"He's tough, so . . . yeah, I do. I think he's going to be okay. And probably faster than we would imagine," Cody answered.

"Why do you say that? Why faster?" Rex inquired with a skeptical look, an expression Cody had seen many times before.

Cody inclined his head to one side. "Because there's something about this place," he said with a degree of uncertainty in his voice. "Maybe it's all the attention and care, but it doesn't feel like a hospital. It feels like a . . . like a . . . "

"A monastery?" Rex filled in the blank.

"It's warm and welcoming," Cody replied. "It feels comfortable."

"It's supposed to be that way, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but you know as well as I do that a group of soldiers rarely finds welcome," Cody pointed out. "Here, they seem happy to see us."

"That's good. Right?"

"It's good," Cody concurred. "I'm just afraid our lads might get too comfortable."

"What do you mean?"

"When you get out of here and see what this place is like, you'll understand," Cody explained. "You know how it is for us – we go from one battle to the next. Our idea of fun is beating the crap out of each other at z-grav when we have a few days of downtime. The recreation decks are where we spend our R&R. This place is like something straight out of a dream."

"So, you think the men will get distracted?"

"I don't know if distracted is the word, but I think they can get real comfortable real fast in these kinds of surroundings," Cody answered.

"Then I guess I'd better get on my feet even faster, so I can keep an eye on them, especially if you're going to be leaving in a few days."

"Don't rush it, Rex," Cody warned. "Jesse will be here. He can ride herd until you're recovered."

"Am I interrupting?"

Both men turned their attention to the door.

Doma Maree stood on the threshold.

"No, ma'am, not at all," Cody replied, giving a respectful nod.

She entered the room with much less formality than her previous visit in the examining room – for which Cody was relieved, as it made her presence less intimidating.

"I am coming to see how you are all doing," she announced, approaching the bed with the ease and confidence of someone who knows that she is charge, yet with a mildness that seemed the natural outflow of a caring spirit. "You look well." She did not place her hand on him as she had last time, appearing already assured of the improvement in his condition.

"I'm feeling much better," Rex replied earnestly. "Thank you. Thank your doctors."

"I shall."

Cody looked at her with a glimmer of humor in his eye. "Have you already been to the party next door?"

"I have, indeed." She smiled gently. "Laughter is a good sound in a house of healing. For the patients and their care-givers." A pause. "Au-Ogusta tells me you have found two speeders that may be useful. We have little skill in repairing them, but I can send some of our technicians to see if they can perhaps help. Their area of expertise is working on medical equipment, but they may be of some use."

"We'd appreciate any help you have to offer," Cody replied. "I'd like to be on my way to Heembab in the next day or two."

"I understand. We will help in whatever way we can." She looked from Cody to Rex then back again. "Do your superiors know that you have crashed?"

"They may by now," Cody replied. "I'm sure they noticed once we failed to report in at the appointed time."

"Of course, it wouldn't be the first time we've failed to check in," Rex noted, tongue-in-cheek.

Cody tried not to smile. "Yes, and each time, it was because there was trouble."

The Doma regarded them both for several seconds of what was clearly an assessment. At length, she said, "You said you crashed in the desert. Did you crash or were you shot down?"

The question caught them both off-guard.

It was Cody who answered at last. "We were shot down. By a Separatist warship."

Doma Maree's expression remained serene, impassive. "Do the Separatists know you landed on this planet?"

The commander drew in a deep breath. "We're not sure. We were traveling in hyperspace, and they somehow knocked us right out of it. That should make it hard for them to find us, but we can't be sure."

The Doma was silent for a long time.

Both clone officers were thinking that what had been too good to be true had just come to an end. This community of healers would certainly not want a targeted group of clones in their sanctuary. That was only inviting the enemy to seek them out; and if they were found among these peaceful people, that could end disastrously.

"We disabled the distress beacon on our ship, so the Separatists wouldn't detect it," Cody went on. "But if they see our ship in the desert—"

"The winds of the Sandheim have surely already obscured it," the Doma interjected. "And there are the skeletons of many unfortunate vessels and transports all throughout the sands. Does the enemy have a way to discern your ship from the other wrecks?"

"They do having imaging guides and some other methods," Rex answered.

Another moment of silence. "Were they after you specifically, or did you just happen to cross their path?"

Again, Cody and Rex exchanged heavy gazes.

"It appeared they were after us specifically," Cody replied.

"Do you think they are looking for you?"

Reluctantly, Cody admitted, "Yes, I do."

"Then, you have something or someone they want," the Doma surmised. "Surely, they would not pursue you if you were just . . . rank-and-file soldiers."

"We can't discuss that, ma'am," Cody deferred.

"You do not need to," she replied. After a thoughtful pause, she stated, "You are still in danger, then." Surprisingly, she did something neither clone had expected. She reached out and took Cody's hand in both of hers. "And it is our duty to keep you safe until help arrives." There was resolve in her eyes and firmness in her grip. When she released him, a peculiar grin lifted the corner of her mouth. "Au-Mikiel will be very excited. He has long searched for a way to support the war effort."

Cody was flabbergasted. Looking at Rex, he saw the same confounded expression in his eyes.

It seemed they had stumbled upon the bizarre combination of peace-loving militarists.

"The evening meal is about to be served," Maree announced. "Commander, will you accompany me? Au-Ogusta will fetch the others. I think it would be less overwhelming for you and your men if you ate with me and Au-Mikiel and the elders. The main dining hall can be quite trying if you've never been around that many people before."

Here, Cody and Rex exchanged knowing glances.

"Huh, try eating with 10,000 brothers," Rex said jokingly, although it was the absolute truth.

"10,000 men just like you two?" the Doma squinted. "I think that would be a pleasant, well-mannered meal."

Rex colored and Cody scratched his temple.

"No?" Doma Maree inquired.

"I, uh, I wouldn't want to, uh . . . vouch for the table manners of any of my brothers," Cody scraped.

"Or their appetites," Rex added.

She smiled then leaned over to squeeze Rex's forearm. "We like to see healthy appetites. Healthy minds. Healthy bodies."

"Well, I don't know about the last two, but I can assure you of the first," Cody stated, then to Rex, "I'll be back in the morning to check on you."

"I was going to offer you and your men a tour of the Monastica after the morning meal," Maree informed him. "I want you all to feel completely at home."

"No problem," Cody replied. "I'll make my visit an early one."

"Not too early," Rex grunted.

Cody looked at the Doma with a rueful expression. "Believe me, your people will be begging me to take him off their hands by the end of tomorrow."

The Doma let her gaze drift once more to the patient lying in the bed. He had every appearance of being a good sort of man, reasonable and quiet, polite and respectful. Yet, she could well imagine that, simmering beneath the placid exterior of the moment, was a firebrand whose entire existence revolved around victory. And a man did not win victory or lead others to it by languishing in bed recovering from an injury.

Still looking at Rex, yet she addressed her words to Cody. "I do believe you are right, Commander."

 _ **Little shout-out there to Ninety Nine.**_


	14. Chapter 14

**_Dear Reader, First let me again thank my reviewers, LLTC, Queen Nagaina, and CT-782. Thank you so much! It really does help keep me motivated to continue posting. A couple notes about this chapter. There are some metaphysical discussions, but I do not want anyone to think I'm pushing any religious motif. I, myself, am deeply religious, but I am also quite open to other spiritualities; because as I pointed out earlier, I am fascinated by religion and mysticism. My main point in much of their discussion is to lay the groundwork for something that is to come later in the story. Also, just for kicks, my vision of the main dining hall is modeled after the Festhalle in Munich, if anyone has ever been there. One big party! Peace, CS_**

* * *

Chapter 14 Novelty

" _Novelty has charms that our minds can hardly withstand."_

-William Thackery

The room in which Cody and his team took the evening meal was located adjacent to the main dining hall. The commander judged that it could comfortably sit up to a hundred and fifty people. At present, there were about seventy brothers and sisters. Add the clones and the number went up towards eight-five.

Cody had seen the main room upon entering, and while it could not compare with the mess halls on Kamino, it was sizeable and almost completely full. It made him feel a flash of nostalgia, even though the Monastica dining hall had more of a festival house feel to it, whereas Kamino's eating areas were purely functional.

Cody had been somewhat taken aback by the jubilee atmosphere of the main hall. He'd imagined that meals in a religious community would be solemn, orderly and . . . pious? Was that the word? Holy? Reverential? At least, a serious business.

But as he'd passed by the hall, he'd seen a spirit of celebration, fellowship, and laughter. He'd also noted that the hall's occupants were not only brothers and sisters but apparently layman as well, young boys and girls who looked to be teenagers, and even small children.

Only just before the meal was served was there a moment of quiet recollection followed by a prayer of thanksgiving. Cody and his brothers were respectful of the custom and stood along with everyone else during its recitation. When the prayer was over, the food was served immediately.

Cody glanced at the tables where his brothers were intermingled with their hosts. He noticed that Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch were not present; but he hadn't expected them to be. Much to his surprise, however, Fives was there, sitting with Sempe and DB, being personable and even chatty. Cody mused that Rex would be happy to know that his latest recruit was finally expanding his circle of interest and making an effort to engage with others beyond Echo.

The commander himself was seated at a table with the Doma; Fels Au-Mikiel—the head of the Austeniens; his secretary general, Fels Au-Gehen; the Doma's personal assistant, Nova Merika, Nova being a rank among the sisters; and another sister, Nova So'nodor, whom Cody would learn was in charge of the school for the Resident children. Cody hadn't even known there was a school. And filling out the circular table was Three Point, whom Cody was sure would make a good impression: he always did, when he wasn't asking question after question.

Right away, the commander was struck with the presence of Au-Mikiel.

He had imagined the head of the Austeniens would be an older man, placid and mild. In fact, Au-Mikiel looked quite young, perhaps in his forties, extraordinarily attractive, almost to the point where he could be called beautiful. He had a demeanor that was jovial and engaging. No sooner had the opening prayer concluded and everyone taken their seats than the First Servant turned warmly to the commander.

"You must be Commander Cody. I'm glad to finally meet you," he said with a broad smile. "I usually would have come to you sooner, but I had a group of brothers from one of the remote houses here for specialty learning, and that needed the whole of my attention." He, too, had the informal speech of a man for whom Basic was a familiar language. "And I knew the Doma would see to your needs. She takes care of all of us." With this last utterance, he turned his gaze towards the Doma, and Cody could not miss the fondness in his gaze or the affection in his voice.

"She's been very gracious and helpful," Cody replied, "As have all the brothers and sisters. We were lucky you found us."

From beside Au-Mikiel, Fels Au-Gehen spoke. "Luck is a myth. We found you because the Creator intended it. Only the reason has yet to be made manifest." His manner, while somewhat stiff, displayed enough easiness that Cody imagined the man was extremely well-educated and knowledgeable but was making a concerted effort to not lapse into the comfortable speech of contractions and lingo. He wanted to maintain his formality.

"Whatever the reason, we're grateful nonetheless," Cody replied.

"Gratitude well-founded, for the Sandheim is very unforgiving to inexperienced travelers," Nova Merika put forth. She added with a grin, "Although I'm sure none of you could be called inexperienced. But given the circumstances of your presence on our planet, it is a miracle any of you survived at all."

Au-Mikiel concurred. "Au-Ogusta said none of your men was killed in the crash or in your wanderings. That's a reflection of your leadership, Commander."

"And Three Point's ability to pilot a falling rock," Cody replied, nodding towards his pilot.

"I can't imagine what kind of nerves it takes to know you have so many lives depending on you and still manage to land safely," Au-Mikiel said in admiring wonder.

"I don't know if I'd call it a safe landing," Three Point said with a funny sort of humility which the pilot rarely displayed. "It was a crash landing, and we did have some serious injuries. The ship was torn in half. Things could have easily been much worse."

"Indeed," the Doma agreed. "They were shot down by Separatists. Their ship could have been blown to pieces and all of them killed outright."

Cody was mortified. He hadn't imagined the Doma would tell the others about the truth of the clones' presence and the associated danger of harboring them. He watched to see the reactions.

Au-Gehen's response was perhaps a bit troublesome. "Well! It's a good thing you weren't all killed. But do the Separatists know where you are?"

"We don't know," Cody answered truthfully.

"But he believes the Separatists are looking for him and his men," Doma Maree explained. "It is our duty to protect them."

"Absolutely," Au-Mikiel agreed.

"I mean no disrespect, First Servants, but is that not putting the Monastica in danger?" This from Sister So'Nodor.

"Certainly, it is an added risk," the Doma replied. "But one that our code demands we follow. We cannot decide only to undertake those aspects of our religion that we find comfortable and without the possibility of adversity. These men need our help, and if we are to be true Verviens and true Austeniens, then we will not consider the risk to ourselves as a reason to deny help." She spoke in a gentle, purely expositionary manner with no hint of accusation or lecture.

"Of course, we would not deny them help. But we should have plans in place in the event the Separatists track them to this location," Au-Gehen said thoughtfully.

"I agree," Doma Maree concurred. "And we shall discuss it after night prayer. Meals are meant for thanksgiving and fellowship."

"Exactly so," Au-Mikiel said with enthusiasm. "Besides, I have so many questions I would like to ask you, Commander. I hope you understand that you and your fellow clones are quite the novelty here."

Cody gave an amused harrumph. "I don't think I've ever heard us referred to as a novelty. Three million identical men doesn't strike most people as unique."

"You're hardly identical," Maree differed. "You may be genetically the same, but you have very different personalities."

Three Point spoke up. "That's what the Jedi say. I have a good friend in another unit who was stranded on a planet with Master Yoda and two other troopers. It was just the four of them against an entire battalion of battle droids. They were hiding out in a cave, taking a rest, and Master Yoda told them that even though they were clones, in the Force, they were all different. I admit, I don't understand the Force at all, but I was . . . it meant something to me to hear that he'd said that."

"I've heard of Master Yoda," the Nova replied. "I would love to meet him someday. He must be very wise. The reason you are all different in the Force is because the soul is not genetic, it's not material."

" _Oh no, here we go. I didn't want to get into this kind of discussion. Anybody but Three Point. I should never have had him sit at this table,"_ Cody groaned internally.

"I like that idea," Three Point said. "I don't really know what it means, but I like the idea that I have something different from all my other brothers and they have something different from me. If that's a soul, then I like it."

"That's not the only thing you have that's different from the others, though," Au-Mikiel pointed out. "Your experiences are different. No one shares the same experience from the same viewpoint."

Three Point appeared pleased with this answer. "Are you sure you're not Jedi?" he grinned.

Doma Maree laughed. "Quite sure. None of us has the ability to manipulate the Force in way the Jedi do. Theirs is a separate and special calling."

"I think what you do is a special calling, too," Three Point said. "Saving lives is important. Maybe most important."

Across the table, Cody breathed his relief. Three Point was being conversational without being controversial – which was more than the commander had expected from his inquisitive pilot. Looking around at the other tables, he saw the rest of his men engaged and enjoying themselves. Their hosts appeared to hang on their every word in much the same way as what Cody had observed in Echo's room. There was an attentiveness that Cody knew very few of his brothers had ever experienced.

It was pleasant.

And it gave Cody greater confidence that he could be assured all would go well between his men and the religious orders once he had left on his mission to Heembab. For go, he must. He only hoped one of the speeders could be brought to use.

In fact, as soon as the meal was over, he announced that he was taking Tip, Zinger, and Three Point back to the stables to work on the speeders again. The Doma offered the assistance of several of the more mechanically inclined brothers, as well.

Opening the door to the outside, Cody was surprised to see that the sandstorm had passed while they were eating, and he'd not had the slightest idea. Already, dozens of men and women were out sweeping and shoveling the sand to clear the pathways. It amazed Cody at how ingeniously designed the Monastica was, in that the trees and the buildings were so aligned as to prevent the blowing sand from overrunning and damaging many of the crops.

But then, perhaps he shouldn't have been amazed. Hundreds—perhaps, thousands—of years of desert dwelling had certainly given the Verviens and the Austeniens plenty of knowledge in combatting the elements.

Cody knew he was going to need that expertise if he were ever to get to Heembab.

* * *

"Eh, this is blown, Commander," Zinger grumped in exasperation, tossing a grease rag over the open hood of the speeder he'd been working on. "There's no way. The parts of so corroded, and they have no replacement parts here. There's nothing that can be used as a substitute."

"I'm afraid he's right." This from one of the brothers, Au-Rafel, whose specialty was the construction of sophisticated medical devices, but who had a bit of the engineer in him; and thus, he'd spent the past two hours hunched over the speeder, working with Zinger to try and coax life into something that was deader than dead.

Cody hid his disappointment well. "What about the other one?"

Tip, standing beside a frustrated Three Point, looked up, shaking his head. "No go, Commander."

As much as he hated to admit defeat, Cody knew that the time had come to make a decision.

"It looks like we're going to have to go by Shempa. Au-Rafel, can you get word to Au-Ogusta? I'd like to leave as soon as possible," he announced.

"Of course—" Au-Rafel began to reply, but then Au-Ogusta's voice came from the stable entrance.

"I am here." He strode to stand beside Cody. "I am sorry we could not make the speeders work. But I will arrange for the Shempa and a guide. How many of you will go?"

"Just me, Three Point and Moog," Cody replied.

Au-Ogusta inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I will prepare everything, but I think you will have to wait until tomorrow evening. It is at least seven days journeying through a very hostile part of the Sandheim. The Swaig Flats are treacherous, and you must be prepared. And it will take some time to load the Shempa."

"Tomorrow evening is fine," Cody agreed.

"What are the Swaig Flats?" Three Point asked.

"They are a part of the Sandheim that is closer to the desert's edge. They have sinking sand and swarming flies. Giant desert serpicos make their nests beneath the surface. You must have a knowledgeable guide to get through safely," Au-Ogusta explained.

"Oh, well, now that sounds like as much fun as listening to Echo recite regulations," Three Point quipped.

"Moog will be thrilled," Tip deadpanned.

"It has to be done, and I want to be ready for it," Cody stated, then to Au-Ogusta. "So, if we need some time to make sure we have everything, that's fine. Tomorrow evening, then." To his men, "Let's head back to the quarters."

As they left the stables and began walking back along the tree-lined main way, Tip leaned over to Zinger and Three Point and said in a low voice. "Captain Rex is going to be fit to be tied when he hears what he's missing."

Zinger grinned knowingly. "Quicksand, flies, whatever the hell a serpico is . . . yeah, he's not going to be happy to be cut out of that kind of action."

From up ahead of them, Cody spoke. "And he doesn't need to know about any of it."

The three junior officers were struck with their own carelessness. How could they forget that their commander seemed to have an ear for everything spoken in hushed tones. It was as if Cody had some kind of innate listening device in his head, and it focused like a laser on the very things meant to evade it.

When none of his men responded, Cody stopped and faced them. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Commander," all three replied in unison.

"All he needs to know is that me, Moog, and you—" referring to Three Point, "—are heading out tomorrow to Heembab and that we're going by Shempa. Anything else, I'll tell him. If he thinks any of us are in danger, he'll be—riding one of those Losla things out there by himself, trying to find us. And he's in no condition for it. So, keep the details to yourselves."

"Yes, Commander."

As they resumed walking, Cody's mind was already working. _"How am I going to do this? How am I going to convince him that he needs to stay behind?"_

These were the sorts of moment that made Cody wonder how he'd ever become such good friends with someone so diametrically opposed to him.

The fleeting thought crossed his mind that, of all the things he had gained from ARC school, his friendship with Rex was what he most valued the most.

That was what made meetings like the one he was about to undertake so difficult.

So, when he split off from the others to go to the healing rooms, it was with the fervent hope that Rex was asleep. It would be much easier to tell him in the morning after both of them had had a good night's rest.

But Cody's conscience would not allow it. If Rex were awake, he needed to know now. As second-in-command, soon to be first-in-command, of the team, he had to know the decisions that were being made; and he deserved to have a say in them – as far as could be reasonably expected, given Rex's temperament. He seemed to grow more like General Skywalker every day.

As he approached the room, he was encouraged to see the doorway was dark; but coming to the threshold, he saw Rex sitting up in bed, going over something on his data pad, the green light of the screen giving a sickly illumination to his face.

"I can't believe you're still awake," Cody rebuked him, stepping inside. "Don't you think you should be trying to get some sleep?"

"I could say the same to you," Rex replied game. He didn't appear even remotely tired.

"You could, but I'm not the one recovering from some pretty serious injuries," Cody pointed out. He moved over to stand beside the bed. "What are you looking at?"

"Pieces of the information we downloaded from the consoles," Rex replied. "It's all . . . it's like Moog said: part of it is encrypted with a code we've already cracked. Part of it is in a new code. But why would it be stored on a console on a planet like Pylotta? The Separatists hadn't even finished building their base there, so why would these consoles be full of data?"

"Pitch and Fives said there were people in the command post," Cody replied. "It may have already been an active listening post, even if the space port was incomplete."

"That's true," Rex agreed. "It just seems so out of the way. It makes me wonder if the Seppies have something else going on in another part of that system that we don't know about."

"Well, there's not much there," Cody said. "UP-12, the moons of Deleron, Abafar . . . I'm not sure what else."

"Take a look at this. There are images in these files. If we can decrypt them, maybe that'll give us an idea what this all about."

This was just the opening Cody was looking for. "That sounds a good thing for you to do over the next few days while you're here recovering."

Unfortunately for Cody, it went right over Rex's head.

"It would be good if we'd managed to figure out at least some of it by the time the fleet picks us up," Rex noted.

Another opening. This time the commander would be more direct.

"Speaking of which, I'm heading out tomorrow to Heembab with Three Point and Moog."

Rex regarded him with a remarkably neutral expression. "And you want me to stay here," he supposed.

"Yes, I do. I need someone to be in charge of the rest of them," Cody replied.

"Jesse can do that," Rex countered evenly.

"Jesse's a little preoccupied; you know that. Look, Rex, we weren't able to fix any speeders, so we have to go by Shempa. While I'm sure you could manage, I think it would be better for everyone if you stay here, give yourself some time to heal, and keep an eye on our lads. You can put them to work on decrypting those files." Cody threw out one final sway. "It's seven days of more sand and heat. Believe me, you won't be missing anything."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Actually, no."

After a brief, thoughtful silence, Rex conceded. "Okay. I'll stay here."

" _Wait a minute. That was too easy,"_ Cody thought. He narrowed his eyes. "That, uh, was a quick agreement. What have you got up your sleeve?"

Rex raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to argue with you? I can do that, too."

Cody held up his hands. "No, no. I just don't want any surprises."

"No surprises," Rex assured him. "I'll stay here. But—"

Cody braced himself. Here came the condition.

"—I'm not staying one more day in this bed. I feel good enough to get up and move around."

"Take that up with the healers," Cody backed off. "I'm not about to get in the middle of that."

"That's right, because you won't be here."

" _Too smart for his own damned good,"_ Cody thought ruefully, but he let it slide. "I'll be back tomorrow before we go. We aren't leaving until the evening." A pause. "Doma Maree is giving us a tour in the morning."

"A _tour_?" Rex's voice was only slightly mocking. "We're not on vacation, you know."

"You _need_ a vacation," Cody swatted back. "I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

The morning was still fairly cool when Doma Maree arrived at the Seiba Tops to take the clones on her promised tour.

Even though he knew he would not be there to enjoy whatever she was going to show them, Cody still went with them out of courtesy and curiosity. And he made sure Moog and Three Point also went.

As it turned out, Cody was glad of his decision, for it was hardly a dull thing.

Beyond the ellipse where the Seiba Tops were located and separated by at least a half kilometer of cultivated desert trees, were the two main residences, one for the Verviens, the other for the Austeniens. They stood on opposite sides of a broad, tree-lined walkway with sparsely planted gardens between the lines of trees and the structures. They were single story but built as squares within squares, each with a cloister walk bounded by elegant archways.

Heading north past these residences, they came to a series of four buildings, each resembling the structure of the healing houses. Doma Maree explained that there were the wayward homes.

"There are men and women who, for whatever reason, need a . . . respite, a sanctuary away from society. Abused or abandoned women and children. Men who simply need a quiet place to regain their equanimity. Others who have been shunned by the rest of the world. We have places for them in our remote houses in every location where we operate. But for many, the tranquility and healing they seek can only be found here. These are where they stay." A pause. "And that large building just beyond: that's our school. We have a great number of children here. They need education."

"Do, uh, do the brothers and sisters marry and have children?" Three Point asked.

"No," the Doma replied. "We are celibate."

"So, you don't form attachments, just like the Jedi." This from Sempe.

"Ah, that is where we differ very much from the Jedi," she replied. "We are called to love and care for others with a great deal of attachment. We must only be cautious not to become more attached to any person or thing than to the Creator. Celibacy is our discipline, but it does not prevent us from loving and forming attachments."

As they drew near the school, a group of ten or twelve girls, perhaps six or seven years old, who had been getting some kind of lesson in a small plot of garden, under the tutelage of a young, plump, and pretty-faced sister, all stopped what they were doing and came scurrying over to the frail fence around the plot.

"Doma! Doma!" they called out excitedly.

The Doma approached them and held her hands out over the fence. The girls all reached out to touch her. They jabbered in a language the clones could not understand.

After a few seconds, Doma Maree quieted them with a motion. In Basic, she said, "Children, can you say hello to our guests?"

The cacophony of greeting that followed was much louder than seemed possible for such small bodies to make. But it was sweet and charming, and the girls were clearly fascinated into wide-eyed wonderment.

"These are soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic, our protectors," the Doma told the children. "They are visiting for a short time before returning to the war."

As she spoke, more children, boys and girls, began to gravitate to the area.

Sixer looked at Bounce with mirth. "Looks like word's out that off-worlders are here."

Bounce whispered back. "Are we about to get mobbed by little kids? Battle droids I can handle, but kids?"

Cody noticed one little girl who hung back from the group. She wore the same plain school frock of peach color with a bow just slightly darker around the waist. At first, Cody thought she must be shy, intimidated by the sight of so many grown men of similar appearance, some of them perhaps a bit threatening with their tattoos and bizarre haircuts. But then, as the girl turned to reveal more of her face, Cody saw right away what must be holding her back.

One side of her face was disfigured. It looked fallen or like melted wax from a candle. There was no smile on that face, no laughter, no excitement.

Cody wasn't a man who dwelled in sadness. He wasn't even sure he'd ever really experienced the emotion. But he felt something, looking at this girl, that just might be sadness.

"Yusani! Come to me!"

Cody turned at the sound of the Doma's voice and was stunned when he saw her hike up her frock and step over the little fence in an ungraceful and inelegant manner. She crouched down and held out her arms.

The little girl, Yusani, whose face had seemed incapable of smiling, now broke into a happy, ugly one-sided grin, and she came running to the Doma's embrace.

"Have you planted something today?" the Doma asked.

Yusani nodded, but her eyes darted bashfully between the Doma and the clones.

"What have you planted?"

The girl shoved one dirty little hand into her pocket and pulled out some seeds. She held them in her open palm.

"Drakefruis! Mmm! When they are grown, will you share them with me?"

Yusani nodded.

"Do you want to say hello to our friends?" the Doma asked, standing up and bringing the girl with her.

There was no greeting, only a curious, scrutinizing stare. Then Yusani looked back at the Doma, said something in her own language, chortled, and hid her face in the Doma's neck.

Maree smiled. "She says hello. She's a little bit shy."

She put the girl back down, kissed her fallen cheek, and climbed back over the fence. She continued walking, and the clones followed her.

Cody sidled up beside her. "That little girl. What happened to her?"

"Nothing happened to her. She was born that way," Maree replied.

Cody was taken aback. "Didn't her parents know she would be like that?"

"I have no idea. She was abandoned on the doorstep of one of our remote houses in Kratta-Isp. We brought her here where she could be away from mean stares and meaner words," the Doma explained. "When she's a bit older, if she desires, we can undertake surgery to correct her deformity. Though, to me, she is perfect as she is."

"I just—I can't believe she's—I mean, I can't—on Kamino, anyone with that kind of deformity would be terminated. There were a few that were . . . mishaps early on, and they were allowed to live. But now, they would terminate them before viability," Cody said.

"You will forgive me for saying so, but that is despicable, Commander," the Doma said. "A living being's value isn't determined by how useful it is or whether or not it is wanted by someone else. The value is intrinsic." She did not sound angry. Rather, there was a tenor in her voice that made Cody hold onto her words and consider them. She continued. "If one of your brothers was to be injured so badly that he could no longer contribute to the fight, would you decide that his usefulness had come to an end?"

"Well, that wouldn't be my decision."

"Would it be your belief?"

Cody hesitated. "I don't know," he finally answered honestly.

The Doma looked at him in such a way that he actually felt uncomfortable. "I think you do know. And I think you wouldn't so easily dismiss the value of life if it was someone you cared for." She paused. "It's learning to value the lives of those you _don't_ care for that's the harder part."

"I guess I've never really thought about it," Cody replied.

"It's worth a thought, isn't it?" She looked ahead as they passed the school and entered the lush oasis of the run of the springs. "I believe your friend, the captain, thinks about it often."

"I think you're right. He's much more emotional than I am. He's just good at hiding it . . . well, sometimes."

"I wasn't talking about emotion," the Doma corrected. "I was talking about how much he values the lives of his men."

Cody wasn't sure what to say, so he remained silent; and the Doma let the conversation lay where it had fallen.

The path through the oasis was overgrown with palm-like Gifta trees, hung with vines and fruit. The stream up at this end, near the main spring source, was deep and flowing, warm where it sprang from the ground and cool running between the pools.

Doma Maree led them up a slight incline to a rocky ledge two meters above a wide, deep pool of water. On the opposite side, a bush-covered plateau overlooked the pool below.

"This is one of the bathing pools," the Doma announced. "Though it's not used for bathing. It's a nice, private place to come when you want to cool off. You are welcome to use it."

Cody felt all eyes on him instantly. Before he could say a word, Zinger was already petitioning.

"Commander? Would it be alright?"

The others joined in, begging, pleading, cajoling.

"Don't ask me," Cody deferred. "I'm leaving this evening. If you want to go for a swim, you'll have to ask Rex."

"No problem," Sixer said with surety, and Sempe seconded him.

Cody grinned. "You know best. He's _your_ captain."

**Little shout-out to the "Ambush" episode. Believe it or not, I use the scene in the cave to teach my Confirmation class about the gifts of the Holy Spirit! Everyone loves Yoda!


	15. Chapter 15

_**Dear Reader, A special thanks to LLTC, who gave this story a shout-out in her latest story posting. I appreciate it very much! So, I'm not up on all the SW:TCW canon or legend, but when I start dropping hints at Cody's and Rex's past, ARC school, etc., those are snippets of my own vision for how they met. I created my own history, which may not be IAW with established history. So, sorry if I'm stomping all over canon! Later installments of this story contain the full history of Cody and Rex's meeting and time in ARC school, as well as Rex taking command of the 501st and his first meeting with General Skywalker and how they developed into the team we got to see in TCW.**_

 _ **Final note: when I envision what the clones look like, I tend to go off the Umbara animation, when they'd changed the clones' looks to give them more individuality. Because the Kix of Saleucami looks quite different than the Kix of the firing squad (who looks all of 16 years old, if that! lol!). I mention this because it comes into play in this chapter.**_

 _ **Thanks for your indulgence! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 15 Not Much Modesty

" _Modesty is my best quality."_

-Jack Benny

* * *

"The sun's gone down. We're ready to go."

Rex nodded once at Cody's announcement.

"Remember, it will take us about seven days to get to the city, and then it may take another two or three days for the fleet to get here. Maybe longer. I'm not sure how the standard rotation compares to this planet's rotation, so it could be more or less."

"I understand," Rex replied.

"So don't get antsy and pull up stakes after a week. Give us up to two weeks."

"Two weeks? What are we going to do here for two weeks?"

"Try figuring out the data from those consoles," Cody replied. "And some of you still need to heal."

Rex frowned. "Yeah." A long pause. "Kix is still in pretty bad shape."

"I know. I just came from there. Were Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch with him all day?"

"I think so. I've seen Pitch come and go." Rex looked almost embarrassed. "I think he's still trying to learn how to pray," he said in a somewhat scoffing voice. "Like trying to teach a gundark how to sing. But Jesse and Hardcase, I never see them leave."

"If things don't go well, they're going to need you," Cody pointed out.

"They're tougher than that," Rex replied, and it was clear that the idea of losing Kix and having to be the face of strength for his grieving squad mates was not something that Rex wanted to entertain, even as a possibility.

"I know they're tough," Cody rejoined, and he said no more on the matter. He had no time to get into a debate with Rex. Instead, he moved onto the next subject. "I saw your doctor when I came in. He said you're healing very quickly and will be on your feet tomorrow. He thinks you'll be able to take a room with the others the day after that. Whatever they've got here, it works faster than a bacta tank."

"I could be on my feet now, if they'd let me," Rex said.

Cody simpered. "I warned them you'd be a terrible patient."

Rex grinned wickedly. "But an awesome soldier."

The commander blew his breath out in exasperation. "I think I'll say good-bye on that note."

"Good luck," Rex offered.

As a parting, it was simple and suited both of them. They were, after all, soldiers. Their expertise was combat arms, the waging of war; and they both had a stoicism that befitted their positions as leaders.

It was not that neither of them had ever considered the very real possibility that the other could meet his death at any moment in the war. After all, they had both come close. Cody would never forget the jolt of panic—yes, it had been panic—on Saleucami when General Kenobi had called for Rex and received a reply from Jesse instead. Jesse's report that Rex had been injured had only furthered the commander's concern. Later, after Cody had learned that Jesse and company had safely installed Rex in a farm house and resumed their mission without ever bothering to call in the incident . . . well, it would not be inaccurate to say the commander had gone barve-crazy on them. How could they have been so remiss as to neglect to inform the mission commander, General Kenobi, that one of the senior officers had been wounded? And wounded badly enough that he needed to be left behind for recuperation? They'd had plenty of time and opportunity to inform the main body – anyone in the main body. But they'd blown it, and Cody had been furious. They may not have been his soldiers, but he took them to task regardless. He was sure they'd never forgotten the moment.

On Rex's part, he had only seen Cody seriously injured once. And that once had been enough. It was shortly after Rex had been assigned to the 501st – one of his first missions as a freshly minted captain and the new first-in-command of the most prestigious unit in the GAR. The 501st and 212th had been on a joint mission to take out a biological warfare manufacturing facility – a touchy assignment, given the necessity to avoid spreading contaminants in the course of the destruction.

Both captain and commander had just completed ARC training together—in itself, a whole separate and incredible adventure—and Rex had come away from that experience with the conviction that Cody was the best man he'd ever met, something of a legend in his own right, and the kind of officer he would want at his side in a pinch. An aura of invincibility had seemed to surround the commander—or it might have been a bit of latent hero worship on Rex's part—so the thought of him getting injured had never really crossed Rex's mind.

Until that day. Until that moment when the gunships had landed, and before even one of Cody's men could get out the doors, a rocket-propelled grenade had scored a direct hit in the troop bay.

It might have been the only time Rex had abandoned the immediacy of battle to go to a fallen comrade. The wreckage had been burning, body parts scattered, blood splashed and streaked over broken pieces of tauntingly white armor . . .

Cody had been blasted clear and thrown such a distance that his body actually collided with another gunship that had just lowered to deliver its troops.

Rex had completely jettisoned every bit of leadership training at that moment and gone to the commander's aid – a decision for which General Skywalker had reamed him up one side and down the next, only to concede at the end of the ass-chewing that he would have done the same thing.

Rex never regretted what he'd done. He'd saved Cody's life, and every time he saw the scars on the commander's face, the only remnants of a tragedy that should have been a death blow, he knew he had done the right thing – even as Cody continued, still to this day, to scold him for recklessly putting the life of one man ahead of the mission.

Rex smiled.

" _Let him scold. If there's one thing I've learned from General Skywalker, it's to stick to your guns. I'd do it again if the opportunity came up."_

And in war . . . opportunities always came up. But not in the ways desired or expected.

* * *

The following morning seemed, somehow, emptier.

Even though only three team members had departed the night before, there was something in their absence that the others keenly felt. A lethargy hung over the clones as they took their breakfast, all of them gathered in Zinger's room – a tight fit, but they'd known much tighter in the belly of a Grasshopper. It hadn't helped that the afternoon previous, the commander had nixed any idea of swimming and put them to work helping prepare the Shempa for the trek.

Sitting on the window sill, Bounce, desperate to shake off the gloomy feeling in the room, announced with manufactured enthusiasm. "You know, I could sure go for a swim now. We didn't get to go yesterday. What do you say?"

This was precisely what was needed to snap the spell.

"I say let's go," Slip agreed, scarfing down the last crumbs on his plate and getting to his feet. Several others followed his lead.

It was Zinger who was forced to act as the voice of reason.

"You'd better go check with the captain first," he pointed out. "He's in charge now, and he may have stuff for us to do."

Sempe cast a rueful grin in Zinger's direction. "You pilots are all alike. Rules, rules, rules."

"You gonna tell Oddball that?" Zinger retorted good-naturedly. "He hasn't met a rule he didn't like breaking."

"Sempe and I will go talk to Captain Rex," Sixer decided. "Zinger's right. If we go off to play when he's got work for us, well . . . I don't need another reprimand in my record."

"Me, neither," Sempe agreed. "We'll be back soon. And hopefully, with good news."

* * *

"I wasn't expecting to find you on your feet, Captain."

Rex startled and turned with the hunched shoulders of one caught on the wrong side of prudent behavior.

Doma Maree stood just inside the doorway.

"Ah, well, I feel strong enough, and I'm not sore—not too sore," he fudged. "The docs were going to put me on my feet today anyway. I'm just getting a headstart."

"And doing fairly well, I might add," the Doma said, and she handed him a robe from a peg on the wall.

"Unh-uh. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm trading these sleep things for some regular clothes," Rex deferred, then feeling that he might not have been a gracious as he should, he amended his refusal. "I mean, this, uh, this night . . . sleeping thing . . . it's very comfortable," he stammered, looking down at the light, cottony hospital gown he was wearing. "But I can't go out in this. I need one of those outfits like my brothers are wearing."

"Did the healer say he would be releasing you today?"

Rex affected a nonchalant attitude. "Not yet, but he will." A pause. "With Cody gone, I'm in charge, and I need to keep an eye on my men."

"I do think it is best if you wait until Au-Linus clears you for release." Au-Linus had been Rex's surgeon.

"He's due to stop by any minute now, and I'm sure he'll clear me" Rex answered. "I'll just get dressed before he gets here. Save some time."

"You can hardly get dressed unless I send for some clothes," the Doma pointed out, finding his tenacity humorous.

"Then please send for some clothes." He began tottering towards the restroom, his movements ungainly and with the balance of a ship in rough seas.

The Doma drew up beside him and took hold of his elbow to steady him. Rex was surprised that someone who appeared so gentle and soft could have the grip of a vice.

"Uh, no offense, Doma, but you're not going in there with me," Rex said emphatically. "That I can handle on my-"

His voice fell off abruptly at the sight of Sixer and Sempe in the doorway.

Seeing the captain's face suddenly flush red, the Doma wondered if he was suddenly taken ill, even though she did not feel it in him. Then she followed the direction of his gaze and turned to see the two clones grinning from across the room.

Rex was not a self-conscious man. He was not timid, shy or anything like. But this was simply humiliating. To be caught out in his hospital gown—he could only imagine how much the back was gaping open—being supported by this woman, and hunched over like an old man . . .

The smiles on his troopers' faces was almost too much to bear.

"What do you two want?" he barked, straightening up and forcing his way past the grimace trying to find its way into his expression.

Sempe knew he would not be able to contain his laughter if he tried to speak, so he left it to Sixer to answer the question. "We came to see how you're doing, Captain."

"I'm doing fine," Rex replied, sounding irritated. "I'm in the middle of something."

"We'll wait, if you don't mind, Sir," Sixer beamed.

Rex groaned and shuffled back to the bed, sitting down on the edge. "No, _I'll_ wait. What do you want?"

"Like I said, captain, we just wanted to know how—"

"I told you I'm fine," Rex replied evenly enough. "Come on, Sixer, I've known you and Sempe long enough to know that you've got something else on your minds. What is it?"

Sixer looked to Sempe, who nodded – the extent of his courage at the moment.

"If you have nothing for us to do this morning, captain, we'd like to go to this swimming hole that they have," Sixer announced. "The commander had us working all day yesterday, and well . . . it's already hot outside. We'd just like a little bit of R and R, sir."

The two clones steeled themselves for the stormy answer they were certain was coming. Sixer already had his counter-argument ready.

But then Rex surprised them.

"That's fine. Just don't make it all day. I want you all to do some work deciphering the data from those consoles. Take the morning to do whatever you want, but in the afternoon, I want you all working."

For a moment, neither Sixer nor Sempe knew how to react.

"Are you sure, Sir?" Sixer asked tentatively.

"Yeah. I think you all deserve a bit of relaxation. Go on. I may even join you." He raised his eyebrows when the Doma regarded him with doubt. "Maybe. We'll see," he concluded.

"Thank you, Captain," Sixer said smartly; and Sempe launched a fly-off salute that would have gotten him refresher duty on Kamino.

Once the two clones had departed, Rex shook his head. "I'm a pushover."

"Only sometimes," the Doma replied. "You are quite stubborn about wanting to get out of the healing rooms."

"Well, yeah, but that's different. I don't like lying around and being . . . weak."

Maree inclined her head to one side. "I would hardly call you weak, captain. But I have observed, just over the last two days, that despite your rather gruff exterior, when it comes to your men, you have—shall we say—a soft spot."

"No, let's not say that," Rex declined. He stood up and headed towards the restroom again, this time without assistance. "It may be true . . . but let's not say it."

* * *

"Watch and learn, brothers!" Bounce stood atop the rocky ledge above the pool. Stark naked, he was completely unabashed, appearing like a chiseled statue of the finest stone. His arms were raised above his head, open wide, as if inviting the gods to embrace him.

"Well! Stop posing and do something!" Slip shouted back from down below in the water.

Bounce obliged, executing a perfect swan dive. Coming to the surface, he shook the water out of his eyes. "Well?"

"Gorgeous," Zinger sniffed. "Almost as good as that belly-flop you landed in water survival training back home."

"Well, you know, I'm a natural, like a fish in water," Bounce puffed.

"I don't know. I think March is about to show you up." This from Slip.

March was one fascinating clone to look at; and although the clones did all have the same genetic template, many of them had adopted subtle—and not so subtle-physical distinctions to mark them as different.

March, much like Kix, had somehow managed to maintain the appearance of a youth. His face seemed a bit rounder, his eyes less hazel and more brown, his brow not as pronounced. He wore his hair in its original color in a buzz cut that tapered at the nape, and from there, he wore a tattoo of woven vines that ran clear down his spine and disappeared between his buttocks.

His brothers marveled at the workmanship . . . and the amount of pain he must have suffered to get the thing done.

His fellow clones considered him perhaps a cut above them when it came to attractiveness, much in the same way they viewed Kix.

But when it came to diving . . . March couldn't hold a candle to Bounce. And he didn't even try. Instead, he launched a cannon ball that sent sprays of water clear up to the ledge.

Near one bank, Fives stood ankle-deep in the water, surveying the scene before him. At least ten of his brothers were in the water, the others getting ready to go in. They were having fun, doing the sorts of things men do in the absence of women: splashing, trying to push each other below the surface, racing back up to the ledge for another dive, jump, or flop.

He wanted to join them. He was going to have to soon, for he wasn't going to stand there, feeling as if he were on display for much longer. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the scene was living itself out in a different world – a world where Hevy and Cutup and Droidbait were still alive. They would have already been in the water. And they would have dragged him in there, too. Even Echo would have gone in. Fives could picture Hevy wrestling with Fives to see who would get there first.

That's how it would have been.

Had Domino Squad still been whole.

"Okay, enough spectating!" That was Ajax's voice.

And the next moment, that other world of "if only" met the world of reality; Ajax and DB had him by the arms and were pulling him forward into the water.

"We'll call this your ceremonial dunk to formally welcome you into the 501st!" Ajax bellowed.

And before he could reply, Fives went head-under. He came back up, spit the water from his mouth, and looked at Ajax with a face that could have easily been outrage. But it wasn't. "You bastard," he laughed.

"Not bastard," Ajax corrected. _"Brother."_

* * *

Doma Maree always took a morning prayer walk. And this time, she knew it was not by coincidence that she found herself heading towards the pool. There were any number of places for swimming along the spring run; but the Doma had only pointed out one to the clones, and she had done so with the intention of affording them some privacy.

She would not intrude upon that privacy. The pathway on the west bank rose up into the brush and tree-covered high ground of plateau, and she would be able to hear them and know they were there without having to see them and without them seeing her. She wasn't sure exactly why she wanted to make sure that was where they had gone. She just knew something was sending her in that direction.

As she came to the top of the rise, she understood what she had only intuited before.

There was a knot of seven or eight teenaged girls huddled together at the edge of the rise, down on their hands and knees, peering over the side, giggling and tittering like birds. They were too entranced to even notice the approach of the Doma.

"What are you girls up to?"

Immediately, the girls skittered back from the overlook. "Oh, Doma! We—we didn't hear you coming."

"Obviously." Maree moved up to stand between the girls and looked over the precipice. She saw exactly what she had expected to see, but she needed to pick her words carefully.

Below where they stood was the pool, glistening in the sunlight and nearer its boundaries, dappled by overhanging shade trees.

It was a very pretty scene, but Maree saw right away that a different kind of beauty had drawn the girls' attention.

As expected, the pool was filled with clones. Perhaps only a bit less expected was the fact that they wore not a shred of clothing and appeared completely unconcerned that anyone might see them.

The Doma had not considered what they would _wear_ to go swimming. It was hardly a matter worth pondering; although now, she was thinking she should have pondered it. Instead, she was faced with the dilemma of how to correct the behavior of hormonally charged young girls without inadvertently increasing their curiosity. And given the scene below, that would not be easy; for there was something innocently charming about the carefree manner of the clones, something alluring in the way they were still able to act like boys. And, of course, Maree could not deny the obvious: they were very pleasing to look at.

One of the girls spoke up preemptively. "We were just enjoying the view, Doma."

Another, barely able to contain herself, blurted out in a loud whisper, "They have no clothes on! They're swimming _naked_!"

"Yes, I can see that."

"They don't have much modesty, do they?" the first girl said, a hint of youthful excitement in her voice, as if it were the clones' fault that they were being voyeured.

"Oh, I think their modestly is just fine. It's you girls I'm worried about," Maree chastised gently. "Come along, now, give the poor men some privacy."

"They don't know we're here," the same girl persisted. "We're not doing any harm."

The other girls nodded their agreement.

"You're not behaving properly," Maree replied with a matronly smile. "And I know I don't have to tell you that."

"But Doma, don't you think they're handsome?" another one of the girls asked.

"They're very handsome," Maree replied, ushering the girls away from the overlook. "And that's what makes them such a temptation for you young ladies." She began walking down the pathway that led away from the ledge, herding the girls on ahead of her.

The first girl, a bright-eyed blonde-haired sprite who was clearly the leader, turned and spoke anxiously back over her shoulder. "We want to meet them, Nova Maree! They've been here for almost three days and we haven't even had a chance to say hello."

"I am not sure meeting them is a good idea," Maree replied.

"You've always told us to welcome strangers," the first girl pressed.

"Preela, dear, they have been welcomed sufficiently," Maree said with a tilt of the head that meant her level of indulgence was being reached. "I think it's best if I keep you girls as far away from them as possible."

"Because they're clones?" Another girl posed, this one was name Lutcha, and she was very fair, very pretty.

"Because they're _young men_ ," came Maree's answer. "And they're soldiers. They don't need the distractions of young ladies. Especially young ladies who have forgotten their manners."

"But they're in need," Preela carried on, clearly not ready to give up the fight. "By ignoring them, we're going against everything you've ever taught us."

"Yes, and apparently I haven't taught you nearly well enough," Maree sniffed. "Their needs are being met by the brothers and the sisters. You girls need to focus on your studies and not on the presence of these young men."

"But Doma—"

"No. No more, girls."

"Just a question! Please!" This from Preela.

"One question."

"Will they be invited to the Me'enta Loge festival?"

"I think it highly likely that they will be gone by then," Maree stated.

"But . . . aren't some of them hurt? It may not be safe to move them," Lutcha posed.

"You needn't worry about that, other than to offer your prayers."

"But if they're still here, will you invite them?" Preela pressed.

"Come on, all of you, back to the residence," Maree said, barely suppressing her laughter or Preela's persistence. "And don't let me catch you oogling these men—or any others, for that matter—ever again." She led them back along the way she had come.

Fels Au-Gehen watched them depart, then he stepped out from his hiding place.

He had been on his own morning prayer walk and had also come upon the girls well before the Doma had found them; but unlike the Doma, he had concealed himself behind a clump of Hyla shrub and watched and listened to the girls as they spied on the clones below.

Their behavior was appalling.

He walked to the precipice and looked down.

And there below . . . there was the reason for that behavior.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Dear Reader, First and foremost: Thank you again to my reviewers, LLTC, Ms CT-782, Queen Nagaina, and CaptainRexBest35. I am very grateful! There's a bit of exposition in this chapter. Although I imagine most readers are familiar with most characters (except the OCs), I always feel like I need to write some background. Hence, the smidgen about Kamino. Now, reading through the various "source" materials on the size of a clone batch and the composition of battalions/companies and the associated commanding ranks, it became clear to me that SW follows absolutely no logic or reason in the "formulation" of its units. So, I took some creative license and modeled the 501st after a U.S. Army Infantry Battalion round about WWII. As well, I put the "batch" size at 30, since the training squads are of 5 men each (makes it easy to divide!). Lastly, you may notice that the Jesse at this point of the story is the Saleucami Jesse, very responsible and composed - not the Jesse of Umbara. I hope you enjoy. Peace, CS**_

Chapter 16 Closer to Believing

" _To be closer to believing, to be just a breath away,  
on the death of inspiration, I would buy back yesterday.  
But there's no crueler illusion, there's no sharper coin to pay.  
As I reach out, it slips away."_

 _Closer to Believing  
_ Greg Lake

* * *

"I think I'm getting pretty good at this."

"And not at all prideful."

Pitch's shoulders rose sheepishly. "Well, they didn't teach us humility on Kamino. They taught us to be confident all the time, to go after what we want with everything we have."

"That is a good approach, but only if you want the right thing."

Pitch's mentor, the elderly sister from the prayer group, sat beside him on a stone bench in the courtyard between the healing houses. Her name was Agnesta, and over the two days since their meeting, Pitch had grown quite fond of her and her old-womanly ways. In fleeting moments of whimsy, he imagined that she represented what it would have been like to have a grand-mother (or a mother, for that matter), both doting and firm, filled with wisdom and unconditional love – if it was love she was showing towards him. He wasn't quite sure, being unfamiliar with the emotion in any capacity other than the brotherly love he had for his fellow clones.

"I want the right thing," he asserted. "I'm not asking for anything for me. I just want Kix to get well."

"But do you really know of whom you are asking this . . . favor?" Angesta asked.

"I know you call him the creator," Pitch replied.

"Do _you_ believe in him?"

Pitch considered. "Not really," he admitted. "That's hard stuff for a guy like me to wrap my head around."

"Then why do you continue to pray?"

Pitch took a long time before answering. "Because it just feels like . . . I don't know, it's something to do, instead of sitting around feeling helpless." A pause. "I mean, I don't believe as you do, but just in case I'm wrong and you're right, isn't it better to be safe than sorry?"

Agnesta beamed at him. "Always."

"And you're not mad at me?"

"Not at all. You may be one of the most honest boys I have ever met."

"Well, I'll tell you what . . . I'll be a lot closer to believing if—if Kix pulls through."

"I thought the healers said they expect him to survive."

"Yes, but . . . I just . . . I'll feel better when I can actually see it for myself." He stood up, feeling suddenly very self-conscious for someone bred to be confident and bold. "Especially with Kix." He drew in a deep breath. "We all did something pretty stupid back in Basic Training. It almost cost him his life . . . twice." He rubbed his temples with one hand. "Sometimes . . . sometimes I think that something went wrong in his genetic programming, and he's not as . . . suited for war as the rest of us. And then, other times, I think he's better able to handle it than any other trooper I know. Maybe it was just us-the other members of Saber Squad. We were cut-throat, and . . . he wasn't. But together, we were the best. Without him, we wouldn't have made it. He was sort of our moral compass. We all had one goal, and that was to earn a place in the 501st. We were willing to do whatever it took, and when I think back now . . . " He turned and looked at Agnesta with a plaintive expression, as if he were seeking some sort of absolution. "We didn't mean for anything bad to happen. And in the end, we learned how to still be the best but . . . to look out for each other, too. And we've had Kix's back ever since then. He's never held any of it against us, and we've been closer as a squad than ever before. So, doesn't that . . . make up for the mistakes we made?"

"Are you asking me for some kind of forgiveness?"

"I don't know. I mean, you can't forgive what we did. Only Kix can, and he already has."

"But it is clear that this is something that still weighs heavily on your mind. Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Pitch hesitated. "If I tell you, you won't want to talk to me anymore."

"I do not believe that. But you are dealing with your own guilt. I can feel that in you. If you speak about it, you may finally be able to forgive yourself."

The Bertagad sun was just above the horizon, on its way to setting. It evoked a certain desire in Pitch to put to rest regrets that been following him as surely as the shadows now stretching across the desert.

"I don't know. It's a long story, and I really should get back up there to Kix," he said at last.

"As you wish. If you change your mind, I will be here to listen."

Pitch gave a half-hearted nod. "I'll see you later, Sister."

* * *

"I know you are anxious to get out of here, Captain," Au-Linus said with a tolerant half-smile. "And you'll be glad to know that I find you are responding very well to treatment and healing rapidly. Therefore, I _will_ release you today. I'll send you with medication and instructions. A sister will come by every day to check on you at the Seiba Tops – unless you check in here first. As soon as I leave here, I'll have clothes sent up and make sure someone shows you to your quarters."

Rex nodded. "Thanks for patching me up, doc. Uh, doctor. Brother. Sorry."

"Try taking it easy on that arm, too," Au-Linus added. "You look like you've had your share of injuries, Captain. I'm not sure you give them time to heal adequately."

"I don't know what you've got at work here, but whatever it is, it's a lot more effective than a bacta tank," Rex stated.

"I'll let you figure that one out," Au-Linus replied. "We also released the story-teller next door, and Fels Au-Fran is in looking at the one with the concussion . . . I think he's called Little Ride? I must say you all have very interesting names."

"What about the others?"

"It looks like they'll all be here another day or so," the brother replied.

"Kix?"

"His condition is still serious. Fels Au-Josat and Fels Au-Cepha are doing everything they can for him," Au-Linus said. "His friends have stayed at his side. There's always been at least one with him."

"And I guess you wouldn't have heard anything from Cody, since you have no means of communication," Rex supposed.

"No, but Fels Au-Trava is the best guide we have. He will get them across safely." A pause. "I must continue my rounds. But I'll get someone up here quickly."

"Thanks again."

Less than five minutes later, a sister arrived with the desired change of clothes. Rex did not waste a second getting dressed. His first stop was next door, Kix's room.

Here, he found Jesse and Hardcase.

They both looked exhausted and forlorn.

Rex knew Jesse to be a serious and sensitive soul; so to see him weighed down and melancholy, while disheartening, was not cause for concern; however, Hardcase was another story. Even under the worst of circumstances, Hardcase always managed to hold onto the thinnest shred of optimism. He was hopeful, buoyant, determined.

Not so now.

He looked careworn, miserable.

Both men stood as their captain entered the room.

"Captain, it's good to see you on your feet," Jesse said, but his voice contained no enthusiasm.

"It's good to be up," Rex replied. He moved to stand beside the bed.

"Don't put your hand in that field," Jesse warned.

"I know. I won't," Rex said. He hadn't seen Kix since they'd come to the Monastica. It had only been three days, but it felt like much longer. In the orange light of the cold field, Kix did not look bad; but Rex knew otherwise.

"Has he woken up at all?" the captain asked.

"No," Jesse replied. "They're keeping him unconscious, trying to give his body a chance to heal." He added with forced hopefulness. "They said he's in stable condition. Serious but stable."

"Where's Pitch?"

"I'm here, Captain." Pitch walked in the door.

"Have any of you taken a break?" Rex asked. "You all look terrible."

"Don't make us leave, Captain," Hardcase implored.

"I'm not," Rex assured them. "But when he comes around, if the first thing he sees is you guys looking the way you do now, he's going to think he's in the middle of a combat zone. At least consider getting some decent sleep and taking a shower."

Hardcase hadn't missed his captain's choice of words.

 _When he comes around . . ._

Hearing those words coming from Rex, Hardcase felt more optimism than he had since coming to the Monastica.

It was one of Rex's greatest strengths: the trust he inspired in his men. Why was it that, if Rex said a thing were true, his men were ready to believe and follow him on the instant? The idea of questioning his leadership was utterly foreign to the troopers of the 501st. Rex had a charisma that went before him, just as his reputation did. He knew his business, both strategically and tactically. He was honest to a fault, knew how to both give and take an ass-chewing, and he never held a grudge. From a soldierly standpoint, he was a sure shot, brilliant in hand-to-hand combat, and he seemed to know which chances were worth taking and which ones weren't.

He was esteemed by his peers and respected by his superiors, but it was the admiration of one individual in particular that put Rex leagues above every other officer in the eyes of his men.

General Skywalker.

Anyone who had been around General Skywalker and the 501st for more than a few minutes could not help but notice the Jedi general's absolute trust in his captain, the full faith and confidence he had in Rex's abilities. To know that no less a Jedi than Anakin Skywalker held the captain in such high regard only increased Rex's stature and aura of invincibility among his troops.

"We've been sleeping on and off in here—" Jesse began, but Rex cut him off.

"I said some _decent_ sleep."

"We're okay, Captain," the lieutenant assured him.

"I'll take you at your word," Rex replied, then after studying Kix for a few more seconds, he turned to Pitch; and with a skeptical tone in his voice, he said, "I hear you've been trying to learn how to pray."

Pitch colored. "Well . . . yes, Captain."

"What in the universe for?"

Pitch withered under his captain's scrutiny.

"I figured . . . it can't hurt, right?" the demolitions expert offered.

"It can, if these people think you're making a mockery of their beliefs," Rex replied pointedly, crossing his arms over his chest in a gesture that all of them recognized as the precursor to a dressing-down. Not a lecture—for Rex didn't lecture; he just told it like it was, in the fewest words possible.

"But I'm not mocking them, Sir," Pitch insisted. "I'm serious about it. I'll try anything if it will help Kix. I can't learn to be a doctor in a few days, but I can learn how to pray."

Rex narrowed his eyes. "I know you, Pitch. You speak your mind too easily. You could end up insulting these people." He sighed heavily. "Look, I understand how you all feel. But you'd do better to put your faith in their medical skill than in a bunch of . . . superstitious mumbo-jumbo."

At Pitch's silence, Rex pursued a little further. "Don't tell me you think that stuff is real. Pitch, you've always been grounded in reality."

Jesse spoke up. "He's also always been the one most open to trying new things."

Rex did not reply right away. If what Jesse had just said was true, Rex wondered how he could have ever missed such a thing. He prided himself on knowing his men – each and every one of the seven hundred and eighty men who comprised his battalion. He knew their strengths and weaknesses, their friendships and their rivalries. He knew their histories – the successes and victories, the losses and defeats. He knew each one by name and by number, as individuals and in relation to their place within their platoon and within the battalion as a whole. He knew when they came onboard. He knew when they met their ends.

So, how could he have missed this trait in Pitch, a trooper in whose company he often found himself? He'd seen the steadiness, the professionalism, and the no-nonsense adherence to orders. That was why he'd been so put off by the little excursion on Pylotta, disappointed that a veteran 501st soldier like Pitch could be so unduly influenced by a newbie like Fives.

He'd also seen the filter-less expression of opinion—often contrary opinion—that tended to flow freely from Pitch's fountain of personal wisdom or lack thereof. And, of course, he'd marked the unwavering and almost dogmatic adherence to the protection and impenetrability of Saber Squad and its unity.

But he'd missed this one. And by light years.

The captain wondered if perhaps he was becoming too insular. Too focused on the things he'd already decided in his mind? Less observant?

If that were the case, he would certainly have to amend his ways; for one thing that could be said of Rex without question: he never missed an opportunity to improve his skills – even such a soft skill as keeping an ear to the ground where his men were concerned.

With this in mind, he replied equably. "If it makes you feel better, you can do it. Just don't—don't do anything that's going to get us in trouble."

"Of course not, Sir."

"Excuse me, gentlemen?"

All eyes turned to the doorway. The Doma stood on the threshold.

"Oh, good evening, Doma Maree," Jesse answered with an easy familiarity that made Rex think the Doma had visited Kix's room quite often.

"Am I intruding?"

"No, no, not at all," Jesse replied, realizing after he'd spoken that he should have left that answer to his captain.

As she passed through the room, the Doma cast a subtle grin at Rex. "I see you are now on your feet and that Fels Au-Linus has released you. That must have made you happy."

"Yeah," Rex replied. "He says I'm doing great."

"Yes, he told me," the Doma replied. "He was going to send for someone to show you to your quarters. I told him I would do it."

Rex's throat tightened and his stomach lurched. Put simply, there was something about Doma Maree that made him very uncomfortable, as if he were being scrutinized and judged at every moment. It wasn't something he felt around any of the brothers or the other sisters. It was a groundless aversion, for he knew that he had done nothing for which she could reproach him; and she had never said anything even remotely unkind to him.

But he couldn't help it. He just did not like her.

"Oh, I can find my way, I'm sure. Or one of them will be able to show me," he stumbled through his deferral, looking to his brothers for deliverance.

"It's no trouble," the Doma assured him. She walked over to the bed and reached her hand into the cold field to place her palm on Kix's forehead. A few seconds later, she placed it on top of the sheet over the injury. The expression on her face showed no indication of emotion; but when she had finished, her next action was to call for a nurse.

"Send word to Fels Au-Cepha. Tell him to meet me here in one hour."

When the nurse had left, Jesse inquired immediately. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"There is nothing _wrong_ ," she replied. "He is healing . . . but very slowly. Our methods are usually much quicker taking effect."

"Why do you think that is?" Rex asked.

"That is what I will discuss with Fels Au-Cepha."

"He's still going to be alright, isn't he?" Hardcase asked.

"I believe so, yes," the Doma answered. "I don't feel anything in him that would lead to a worsening of his condition."

"What—what is that thing you do?" Pitch asked. "When you put your hands on us? What is that?"

"It is called Skrit-Na. The search for what ails the body."

"How did you learn that?" This from Hardcase.

"It isn't learned," the Doma replied. "It is a gift, one that takes many years to develop. Many have it, but few pursue it. I suppose I have it to a greater degree than most."

"So, you can just touch someone and feel if there's anything wrong with them," Hardcase stated.

"That is the easiest way to explain it, yes."

"What did you feel in Kix just now?" Jesse asked.

"It is as I said: he continues to heal but very slowly," she replied. "I should like to speed things up."

"How?"

"You will be the first to know after I discuss it with Au-Cepha," she promised. "In the meantime . . . Captain, if you are ready, I will show you the way."

Rex knew he wasn't going to get out of it. In that case, it was better to just get it over with.

"Yes, I'm ready." He looked to the others. "I'll be back later tonight."

As he made to leave, Jesse spoke up. "Captain Rex . . . we're glad you're alright."

Rex nodded once. Expressions of concern for his own well-being made him feel awkward. His men knew that and behaved accordingly.

The Doma led the way through the labyrinth of passages until they came out into the stifling heat of late afternoon.

Rex had forgotten, quite readily during his confinement, just how brutal the desert was.

Seeing the sweat immediately begin to bead on his forehead, the Doma offered, "If you need to stop and take a rest, just tell me."

"I'll be fine," Rex replied.

"It's quite far, and you are still healing."

"I'll be fine," Rex repeated with a hint of irritation.

They began traversing the botanical garden.

Doma Maree spoke up without prompting. "Those four are very close."

Rex was direct. "They're batchers. Squad mates. They've been through a lot together. You're right; they're _very_ close."

"I understand squad mates, but what are batchers?"

"On Kamino, we're created and raised in groups of thirty. Each group is called a batch. We live and train and eat and sleep and . . . do everything together. Our batch becomes our platoon when we're brought into active duty. And within our batch, we're split into groups of five called squads. Those four were in the same squad together," Rex explained. "They're tighter than a braid."

"You said squads have five. Where is their fifth?" the Doma asked.

"At training," Rex replied. "I think they really wish he was here right now. He does a good job of holding them together. But so does Jesse." A pause. "Echo and Fives are also squad mates, but they're the only two left from their squad. The first time I met them, it was under dire circumstances. They showed me something I hadn't seen in many other troopers, and when the rest of their squad mates were killed, I decided I wanted them in the 501st."

Doma Marika listened intently. "It's very interesting. I have never given much thought to how the clones of the army are raised. I suppose it makes sense: if a man is raised from infancy in the constant presence of a select group of individuals, then it stands to reason, they will coalesce into a tight-knit unit." She paused. "What about your batchers? Your squad mates?"

"When I went to ARC training, I knew I would probably be assigned to another unit and separated from my batchers. It doesn't happen to every graduate—or even most—but I've always been the best and . . . well, they needed someone to be first officer in the 501st, and I wanted that job. I haven't been with my batchers in over a year." He paused. "I don't know if any of them are even still alive. I've put all my effort into being the best officer I can for the 501st and for General Skywalker."

"You wanted the job, even if meant leaving your batchers." The Doma's voice was thoughtful. "Jesse and the others, I don't think they could bear the thought of leaving each other."

"You're right. Echo and Fives are the same way."

"Are most clones like that?"

"I don't know," Rex answered honestly.

"But you're not."

"I guess not." Rex let the words drop flatly.

"Is there no one you feel close to?"

Rex frowned and wished she would stop asking questions. But his breeding also included manners, and he respected her as a woman and as the religious leader of the Monastica. So, he replied as politely as he could. "We're clones, we're soldiers. We're not supposed to put our personal desires or our feelings ahead of the mission. We're not created to be like that."

"That wasn't the question. I asked if there is anyone you feel close to, being that you are no longer with your _batchers_."

He would still be polite. "You'll excuse me for saying, but that's my personal business."

Maree was not put off. "Most people like to talk about themselves," she said. "Your fellow soldiers are very open. I assumed you were, as well. I didn't mean to intrude."

"You didn't sense that I was more . . . private than my soldiers?" Rex challenged. "Your gift didn't pick that up?"

Doma Maree laughed.

At him.

"It doesn't work that way, Captain," she replied, then parroting him, "And now, if you'll _excuse me for saying_ , you sound like a crotchety old man."

Rex was startled by this accusation. He could not find the words to respond. The only other person who would dare to say such a thing to him was Commander Tano - and she never held back when she felt Rex was being miffish.

"How is it that you—whom your men hold in such high regard—are the most unpleasant among them?" She pointed out. "Commander Cody warned us that you were a bad patient. But you're not a patient anymore. Why do you continue to be so sour? This can't be the same man that the rest of them so adore."

Rex flushed red.

" _Adore?_ " he croaked out.

The word was not something he had ever wanted to hear in the context of the relationship between himself and his soldiers. Respect. Honor. Revere. Those were acceptable.

 _Adore?_ It was too horrible for him to even contemplate.

"Don't get flustered now. It's my choice of words," Maree said. "Truly, Captain, you are not what I would have expected, based off what your men have said of you."

"Well, I don't know what you expected, but this is all I have to offer right now," Rex replied.

"And meager, it is," Maree noted, then in an effort to steer the conversation back to something less contentious, she added, "And a shame, too, considering all the excitement you and your men have aroused since your arrival."

Rex immediately assumed the worst. "Excitement? I hope no one's done anything wrong."

Maree shook her head. "No, not at all. In fact, your soldiers are very polite and well-mannered. Much better behaved than my girls."

Rex looked perplexed, so Maree offered as much explanation as she felt was prudent.

"Apparently, the arrival of attractive, personable young men is a little too much for the girls to resist."

Rex was mortified. "You mean, the girls who are in training to be sisters are—are getting distracted by my brothers?" It was such an unusual scenario, Rex wasn't sure he could even comprehend the idea.

"No, not the ni-Doma," Maree replied. "These are the girls in the Wayward Houses."

"Oh," Rex sighed. "That's a relief. I wouldn't want to be accused of coming between a sister and her . . . calling."

"Even if it _were_ the ni-Doma," Maree replied, "Part of the discernment process is determining whether or not one has the necessary self-control to be a sister." She smiled knowingly. "We may live celibate lives, but that doesn't mean we suddenly stop being attracted to the opposite sex." A pause. "Even I have to work on mastering my resistance to temptation."

Rex thought the conversation was very funny all the sudden, and a crack appeared in the discomfort and petulance of only a moment earlier. "I've never heard anyone refer to us as temptation."

Doma Maree smiled knowingly. "That's because you haven't been around women enough."


	17. Chapter 17

_**Dear Reader, Thank you again for the reviews, CRB35 and Queen NaGaina. Short chapter . . . I hope you enjoy! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 17 Small Cracks

" _Many a doctrine is like a window pane. We see through it, but it still divides us from the truth."_

Khalil Gibran

"You know, it's not so bad traveling in this heat when you're wearing stuff like this," Three Point stated, tugging at the long cottony top. "I would never have thought it would be possible to travel during the day."

"It also helps to be riding instead of walking," Moog added.

"Let's just hope everything continues this smoothly," Cody warned. As the senior officer, he could not afford to be as nonchalant as his men. He knew how quickly things could take a turn for the worse. "We've got a long way to go."

"What if the fleet sends someone and they show up at the Monastica while we're out here heading towards the city?" Moog asked.

"I'm sure they won't leave without us," Cody replied, then he drew up beside Au-Trava. "What do think the likelihood is that we'll run into a sandstorm or other trouble?"

"It is the season for the sandstorms," Au-Trava replied in heavily accented Basic. "But if we encounter one, I will know how to go through it. I hope the Swaig Flats will be quiet where we will pass. And we will probably encounter many pilgrims heading to the Monastica. The Feast Day of Me' ente Loge is approaching. At least 10,000 pilgrims come every year."

"That's a lot of people," Cody stated.

"It is, as you might say, a very grand time," Au-Trava said.

In the silence of this thoughts, Cody was glad he'd left Rex behind. For if a _grand_ time was in the making—however Au-Trava defined the term—the captain would make sure the clones did not over-indulge any celebratory revels. Because Cody was not fooled for one second into thinking that the men under his command were immune to the allures of a good time, and knowing that they had little exposure to a "festival" atmosphere, he held onto the hope that a religious festival must be sedate and filled with pious ceremonies.

But just in case it wasn't . . .

Rex could handle it.

* * *

"I don't think my armor was this clean when it was issued to me," Fives remarked, holding up his breast plate and admiring the gleam. "I wonder what they used on it."

"I wish I'd had mine with me," Echo said. "But then again . . . I'd hate it if they had scrubbed off the captain's handprint."

"I don't think anything could get that off," Fives said. "You think the captain knew the staying power of Rishi Eel blood when he de-shinied you?"

Echo simpered. "That's not even a word."

"You would know," Fives grinned.

Echo ignored the friendly jab. "These are nice rooms," he noted. He had been released from the healing rooms only thirty minutes earlier; Fives had shown him to the Seiba Tops and the room the sisters had readied for him. The injury to his leg was mostly healed, with only a slight limp left to overcome.

They had arrived at the quarters just as one of the brothers was delivering the freshly cleaned armor. Fives had intercepted the man outside Echo's room and fished his own armor out of the stack.

"Yeah, these must be the VIP quarters," he replied. "We've never stayed in such a nice place. Just beware of Bounce. He's sneaking into all the rooms and eating everyone's food."

Echo snickered. "Those 212th guys . . . you can't trust 'em."

"Yeah. Except on the battle field," Fives rejoined. After a brief pause, he set his armor aside and sat on the foot of the bed. Echo was leaning back against the headboard. "So, now that you're here instead of in the healing rooms, are we going to find a party in your room every night?"

Echo smiled in a manner strangely shy for a man who had not a shred of bashfulness. "They just—we were just trading stories—"

"Uh, you were the one doing most of the talking. All day, every day. All night, every night," Fives pointed out. "I'm not sure you really got any sleep in the healing rooms."

"Well, I can't argue with that," Echo replied. "But it was nice. They're really good people."

Fives nodded. "Yeah, well, I'm glad you're here with the rest of us now."

"Where's the captain's room?"

"In the row right behind us," Fives replied. "So, we can't get up to too much trouble."

Echo regarded Fives with well-earned skepticism. "We?"

"Well . . . "

"I'm the one who follows orders, remember?" Echo pointed out. "You're the one who always has to run off and do his own thing."

"Oh, come on, it's not like I'm—Hevy," Fives protested, and they both started laughing. "I mean, I would never get in anyone's face the way Hevy got in Bric's." He fell back on the bed, his voice brimming with fondness. The memory itself might not have been of a particularly happy moment; but as far as Fives was concerned, any recollection of Domino Squad back in the days of its entirety was worth holding onto. Only now, perhaps for the first time, he could view that memory with joy.

He would never forget the day, after an embarrassing failure on the citadel training platform, when Hevy had mouthed off to one of the contracted bounty hunters brought on to train the millions of cadets going through Kamino's combat readiness regimen.

Bric was a Siniteen and a mean bastard if ever there was one. But he had the toughness and skills to back his gruff manner and uncompromising demand for results. He respected success, though not necessarily the path to achieving it. To Bric, the ends justified the means; and if it meant playing dirty, manipulating the odds or the rules, or even physically abusing a cadet, he was going to gain a victory no matter what.

With Domino Squad, he was either going to see them wash out completely – a result he would have accepted, just to get them out of the way of more capable squads. Or they would show their mettle, rise to the occasion, and outshine every other squad in the process.

As things turned out, it was the latter scenario that carried the day; and the Siniteen had been pleased, although reluctant to admit it.

Still, as an instructor, he'd been a terror.

Hevy had never realized how fortunate he'd been that Droid Bait had held him back, for there was no chance that Hevy could have taken Bric. None of them could have. Though physiologically comparable to a man, Bric, as a Siniteen, carried fully twice the muscle, not to mention a greater resistance to pain, and faster reflexes.

The episode had been a perfect reflection of Hevy's temperament. He had always wanted to dash head-first into the fray, leading the way, but with very little concern for the men behind him. It wasn't until the attack on the Rishi Moon that he'd finally met a man who also insisted upon being first, taking point, but whose thoughts were focused on scoring a victory _only_ in order to protect the men behind him.

The brief interlude that defined Hevy's acquaintance with Captain Rex was something neither Fives nor Echo would ever forget. In those fleeting minutes of trying to find a way to warn the fleet and deny the outpost to the Separatists, the captain had set Hevy back on his heels, shown him that true leadership meant making the hard choices and sticking to them.

Hevy had taken that to heart. He'd made the hardest choice. The final choice.

Now, both Fives and Echo wore tributes to him on their armor.

For his part, Echo was relieved to see Fives laughing and indulging in the memory of a day gone by. The last four weeks—now five—that had passed since that terrible night on the Rishi Moon had been one long stint of regret and almost dare-devil recklessness on Fives' part. Echo might have attributed it to survivor's guilt, but he knew that wasn't it. He knew Fives better than anyone, and he recognized the remorse of a man who wished he'd made better use of the time he'd been given. Fives wished he'd made a greater attempt to get to know his other squad-mates – not just Hevy, but Droidbait and Cutup, as well. He wished he'd not spent as much time being critical of Echo and his annoying idiosyncrasies. He wished he'd been more selfless. He wanted that time back, he wanted his squad mates back. The 501st was wonderful, a dream-come-true. But it lacked a part of Fives' past that it would never have. A part that Fives missed – and terribly.

So, to see him able to recall any aspect of Domino Squad with something other than sadness was a step in the right direction.

"Bric would have laid him out flat," Echo asserted. "In a way, I would have liked to see that."

"Sure you would, because Hevy was always picking on you," Fives replied.

"You _all_ were always picking on me."

"That's because you were annoying as hell, and you know it. You still are."

"Yeah, well, I'm about to annoy the hell out of you one more time," Echo smiled. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I want to see the rest of this place. You can show me around, or I'll go on my own. Make your choice."

Fives sat up. "I know you're healing fast, but the doc told you to take it easy. You're not all better yet."

"I'm not going to run a marathon," Echo said. "I'm just going for a . . . leisurely stroll. Come or stay."

And because Echo meant more to Fives than any other living being, Fives got to his feet. "Fine, let's go. But if you overdo it and end up falling on your face, don't blame me."

* * *

The following day, Rex put all of them to work.

Whether it was trying to decipher the coded data, cleaning their weapons, or trying to get the helmet and wrist communicators working again, everyone except those still in the hospital were gainfully employed. He even set Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch to the task of working on the datapads. He allowed them to stay with Kix, but figured that the diversion would do them good.

Mid-morning found Sempe, Sixer, Double Barrel, and March gathered on some stone benches in a cluster of Ceyla bushes not far from the Seiba Tops. They had taken shelter in the shade and were working on their weapons.

From behind another clump of Ceylas about fifty meters away, they were being watched by a group of young boys.

"There they are! Go ask them! Go! Go!"

"I'm not gon' go by m'self! Come wi' me, Joko."

"No way!"

"I'll go with ya," another boy volunteered. "Come on, Qarra."

The two boys set off on their mission as if they were undertaking a quest of great daring that called for unparalleled bravery.

They got within ten meters of the group of clones, and that was where their courage failed them.

"Let's go back!" Qarra hissed. "Come on, Ambrose! Let's go!"

Sempe looked up from the DC-15S he was cleaning. He was beginning to think he'd never get all the sand out of it. He saw the two boys standing nearby, antsy and struggling with whether they should stay or go. "Is there something you chaps want to ask us?" he inquired amiably.

Neither boy replied. Instead, they froze where they stood.

Sempe looked at Sixer with an amused grin then back to the boys. "Say, why don't you boys come on over here? Have you ever seen a blaster before?"

That effectively broke the freeze, and the two boys scurried over like birds after crumbs.

"That's a real gun!" Qarra raved in awe.

"It's a DC-15S blaster," Sempe replied. "It can send a straight shot 150 meters . . . well, in the right hands."

He could see the boys trying to figure out how far that was. He also noticed that behind them, more boys were heading over, encouraged by their friends' success.

"Is that as far as . . . the All-Creatures statue?" Ambrose asked, looking off towards a stone carving that was well within the weapon's range.

"Five times as far," Sempe answered. "Would you like to hold it?"

Ambrose could barely contain himself. "Can I really?"

"Sure," Sempe told him. "It won't shoot, but you can hold it. Here, I'll show you how." He dropped to one knee beside the boy and positioned the blaster in his hands.

Double-Barrel leaned over towards March and whispered sarcastically, "Give him five minutes, and he'll make recruits of all of them." Then aloud, "You've got the cartridge and mag out?"

Sempe rolled his eyes. "What do you think? I'd have blown my head off cleaning a loaded weapon."

"With you, we never know," March grinned.

"It's heavy," Ambrose said.

"Here, let me show you a trick," Sempe said. "Slide your hand up closer to the end of the barrel. That distributes the weight a bit more evenly. Here, look here through the rear site. Line these up with the site in the front. That shows you where you're shooting. This is the trigger. If you pull it just like this, it will fire off one shot. If you hold it down, it will fire again and again. Try it. The weapon's not loaded. You won't hurt anyone."

More boys had gathered around.

Sixer held his hand out to the one nearest to him. "You want to take a look, too?"

The boy nodded excitedly.

Sixer did the same as Sempe and showed his own weapon to the boy, who took readily to it. Sixer nodded approvingly. "You look like a soldier already."

For the next thirty minutes, weapons cleaning gave way to show and tell. All four clones took part, finding it fun and entertaining – more fun than they'd had in many, many months. The boys were twitching like rabbit droids, making shooting noises and bragging about who was hitting non-existent targets with non-existent bolts.

And then the fun was over.

A sister entered the small copse and stood with authority. She was extremely attractive with skin the color of rich cream, almond-shaped green eyes, and dark brown hair pulled back into the standard net weave, but with loose strands falling over his cheeks, which were round and had a natural high color. She put her hands on shapely hips that even the smock could not hide.

"Shame on you, boys. I had a feeling I would find you here," she scolded. "Get back to the school immediately. Go on, and quickly."

The boys moaned and protested, but at the same time, they were obedient and began retreating along the pathway, calling out a chorus of thanks to the clones and waving fervent good-byes.

Once they were out of earshot, the sister turned to the Sempe and company. "Gentlemen, I am happy the boys find you fascinating, and I would be thrilled to arrange for you to come see them in class to answer any questions they may have. But in the future, be aware that they have school during the day, every day except Kirchtag, and are not allowed to skip on out class whenever they please."

"We're sorry, Sister," Sempe apologized. "We didn't know."

"Which is why I'm not angry at you. The boys are the ones who know better," she replied. "But they are young and very intrigued. What young boy, when he sees a soldier, doesn't desire to be one himself? Truly, it might be a nice thing for you to come speak to them, then they won't feel that they need to sneak off."

"Just tell us when. We'll ask our captain, and if he says it's okay, then we'd be glad to," Sempe stated.

"I will suggest it to Sister So'Nodor. If she approves, I know where to find you all. Good day, gentlemen."

"Uh, what's your name, Sister?" Double Barrel asked.

"Nareen," she replied over her shoulder. "My class is fourth year boys. That was just a small bit of them. When they get back and tell the others about their little adventure, you won't be able to keep them away," she explained. "I imagine you will have visitors after the school day ends."

"That's okay with us," Sixer said. "It was fun."

She regarded them with an unreadable expression, then nodded once before leaving.

The clones watched her go, all of them finding much to appreciate there.

It was March who brought their attention back to the moment. "Do you really think Rex is going to say yes to a . . . a school visit?"

"He'd never agree to go himself, but I don't think he'd object to some of us doing it. Those boys were very interested in what it's like to be in the GAR. I think they would have listened to us for hours," Sempe replied. "Why not answer their questions?" A wily gleam came into his eye. "Besides, I wouldn't mind getting a good look at her again."

"Yeah," Double Barrel agreed. "That was nice, eh?"

"Very nice."

"Come on, we'd better get back to cleaning these weapons," Sixer suggested. "The captain won't be too happy if we don't' have anything to show for a whole morning's work."

"We do have something," March winked. "We're endearing ourselves to the locals."

* * *

"No, that simply is not appropriate, Sister Nareen. As . . . interesting as the clones may be, they do not form any part of the educational curriculum."

Sister So'Nodor stood up from her desk and walked around to stand in front of it. She looked Sister Nareen in the eye. "And quite frankly, it disturbs me to hear that our boys wanted to see them so badly that they were willing to skip class. On top of that, the clones let them play with their weapons—"

"They weren't loaded, Matrice," Nareen replied, using the sister's title as head of the school. "There was never any danger."

"There is a danger of little boys being enchanted with the idea of war," the Matrice pointed out.

"Matrice—"

"These dashing young soldiers come into our midst and tell the most incredible stories of their adventures. I know; I've heard from the other brothers and sisters the kinds of tales these clones are telling. There exists a very real danger that our boys—and even some of the brothers in formation—will be lured in by such romantic notions." So'Nodor waved her hand in concession. "The clones are, indeed, very charming and well-mannered—except I heard there was a . . . an indiscretion at the middle pool; but I am sure they are the best kind of men, or the best kind of clone—but to invite them into the classroom to regale the boys with tales of war? No, absolutely not."

"I understand, Matrice. I just thought I would ask, seeing how much the boys liked meeting them." Nareen paused, considering whether she should speak the thought that hung just on the cusp of her courage. "And given how much the clones have done to protect our way of life, I think it is good that the boys meet them. I think everyone of us should meet them. Then everyone will know to whom we owe our freedom."

Sister So'Nodor was not easily provoked. "I would never prevent anyone from meeting them. They are, I am sure, admirable men. But it simply not appropriate for them to come speak to our students. That is my decision, and it stands as I have spoken."

"Yes, Matrice."

Sister Nareen left the office – but not with a heavy heart.

For she was certain that, classroom visit or not, the boys of her class—and certainly most other classes—would find their way to the clones.

For good or for bad.

* * *

Sister So'Nodor stood at the window, looking out into the school courtyard. It was empty at the moment. All of the eight hundred children for which she was responsible were in class. Children without fathers. Children without either parent. Happy children. Troubled children.

She had a sacred duty to educate them and, by her own example, demonstrate a moral life.

Yet, since the clones' arrival, she had already had a report of swimming in the nude, which had garnered the attention of some teenaged girls. Brothers and sisters staying up all night to listen to one clone in particular go on for hours telling stories that were not always humorous or even morally upright. Surely, prayer lives were being neglected. And now, the younger boys sneaking away during the school day to satisfy their curiosity and being rewarded for it with guns.

Yet, it hadn't even been a week yet. Certainly, the excitement and newness of the clones would wear off in the next few days. And after that, their great army would come retrieve them, and they would be on their way, gone from Bertegad forever.

"You asked for me, Sister?"

Fels Au-Gehen stood in the doorway to the Matrice's office.

"Yes, my brother, please come in."

The secretary general entered and sat down. "I take it something bothers you," he said casually.

"You are correct," So'Nodor replied, nodding her head once in consent. "I believe we have a problem developing."

Au-Gehen was not a man to beat around the bush. "A soldier problem."

"A _clone_ problem."

 **A little Domino Squad there . . .**


	18. Chapter 18

_**Dear Reader, I am back from a glorious week of vacation in Kentucky. Ah, I love horse country! It also gave me a good chance to review a lot of my chapters and make tweaks, so I should be able to continue to post two or three per week, if all goes well. Over the weekend, I watched a boatload of episodes, and I just really love these guys! Having a blast writing this story. Thanks again to my wonderful reviewers: LLTC, CT-782, Queen Nagaina, captainrexbest35, Sajeua and Christina TM. I hope you will all continue to read and enjoy. Things are about to heat up a bit. Now, you'll see why I had to have all the little "the clones did this" and the "the clones did that" scenes. Peace, CS**_

Chapter 18 The Watching Eyes

" _The proud man is always looking down on things and people; and, of course, as long as you're looking down, you can't see something that's above you."_

-C.S. Lewis

* * *

Anakin did not usually hover.

But for the past fifteen minutes, he had been making one clone communications officer very nervous, leaning over the man's shoulder, peppering him with questions, snapping orders, and following up with grunts and groans of frustration.

"Have you scanned on all frequencies?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Are you sure you're not missing something?"

"I've run repeat grid patterns and haven't even picked up a single wave that matches any of the frequencies used by the Republic," the officer replied. "I've even requested traces all the way back to Florum."

Anakin knit his brows. "We left Florum two days ago, but that still wouldn't explain why we haven't heard from them. This isn't right. They're way overdue. Keep scanning." With that, he turned and headed for briefing room 2, where Obiwan was going over the ever-changing details of their current mission.

Entering the room, he found General Kenobi standing beside the holo-projector.

"Ah, Anakin, good," Obiwan greeted him. "I've been going over these transmissions from Dooku's ship, and it appears that he used a relay to trick us into thinking he was near Florum. We've been able to trace these comms back to the Nefer system, but we don't know if he's still there."

Anakin completely disregarded Obiwan's assessment. "Something's gone wrong. Rex and Cody still haven't reported in. Even with us leaving Florum and coming out here, it shouldn't take them this long to catch up with us. It's been three full standard rotations since they were due to arrive. On top of that, they haven't called in once, and we have no idea where they are. We need to go find them." His voice contained unmistakable agitation.

"Anakin, Admiral Yularen is working on trying to find the shuttle—"

"They're _our_ troops, Obiwan. _We_ should be trying to find them," Anakin insisted. "The fleet has been running constant scanner sweeps, digging through all comm caches. They've found nothing."

"What makes you think we would have better luck? Trust the admiral to do what needs to be done. We have our own mission, Anakin," Obiwan said firmly. "We need to focus. The admiral will send a team out to search for them."

Anakin shook his head. "That's not good enough. We're talking about your commander, Obiwan. And my captain. Not to mention, a lot of good men. They have important data with them. There's no way they would fail to report in unless something had gone wrong. We don't even know where Dooku really is. This whole thing has been a wild bantha chase."

Obiwan sighed and prepared to go head-to-head. "Anakin, I'm as worried as you are, but we can't go off looking for them. If intelligence is able to locate Dooku, we need to be ready to go after him. We've already blown too many opportunities."

"Then we can blow one more," Anakin stated.

Seeing that he was not going to change Anakin's mind, Obiwan drew in a deep breath. "Why don't we find out if intel has had any luck confirming if Dooku is in the Nefer system? If they're not able to find him, we may be able to go out and search for our missing men."

"Even if intel _has_ found Dooku, I'm going to find my captain and my troops," Anakin said with conviction.

"Anakin . . . " Obiwan placed his hand on his former apprentice's arm. "We've known each other a long time now. You were my apprentice. Now, you're like a brother. We've been through a lot together. So, I hope you will listen to what I'm about to say and not be offended."

Anakin regarded him with an expression that invited him to go on.

"I'm worried that you're too growing attached to your soldiers," Obiwan began.

"Obiwan, I know the rules on Jedi and attachment—"

"But you haven't always been very good at obeying those rules and managing your attachments," Obiwan reminded him. "When you start choosing the lives of your troops over mission accomplishment, that's beyond attachment. Now, you're risking the war effort."

"I don't see why it has to be a choice," Anakin replied. "I can value my men's lives and still win the battle. We're not the only Jedi , Obiwan. Knowing that our men are missing, why can't other Jedi be sent to fight Dooku while we go to find them?" He paused and his manner became very serious. "I know the clones were created to fight and die. But I can't see them that way. Rex is one of the best men I've ever known. I don't think of him as a clone. I think of him as . . . someone I trust more than I trust the Jedi Council."

Obiwan was not surprised by this announcement. Anakin's disdain for many of the Council's decisions was well known.

"I understand how you feel, Anakin; but you have to master your emotions and recognize that Rex, just like Cody and every other clone, is not more important than victory. As for why another Jedi can't go look for Dooku, I would turn that question back on you and ask, why can't we leave it to the search teams to go find our men? That's their job. You need to accept that."

"I do accept that it's their job, Obiwan," Anakin replied. "But I won't turn my back on my men, and I'll go after them if I have to. Admiral Yularen hasn't even dispatched anyone to go look for them yet."

"Give him time, Anakin."

 _Time._

That was a commodity always in short supply. This much, Anakin knew.

* * *

It had quickly become one of Echo's favorite things to do. And he was convinced it was doing his leg much good. He was up before the dawn, just when everything was at its stillest, to take a walk along the paths north of the Seiba Tops and those following the course of the springs.

For the past two days, Fives had gone with him. He was there this morning, as well, albeit grudgingly. Fives liked his sleep, and Echo's early morning strolls were pushing the envelope of friendship. It might be necessary in the future for Echo to undertake his walks alone – although Fives was growing ever more convinced that Echo never had to be alone unless he chose to be so. With his entourage of admirers, Echo could have found a dozen or more people willing to share his morning walk, if he wished. But as a companion, Echo preferred Fives to everybody.

And so, this morning the two squad mates found themselves on the trail that ran adjacent to the northernmost wall. It was a good three kilometers from the Seiba Tops and formed a sort of desert wilderness. It was here that the first spring welled up in a warm, bubbling pool that the clones had discovered was a very nice way to end the day.

Echo and Fives passed the pool on its northern edge and gone perhaps a kilometer and a half into the thicker, almost tropical, eastern corner of the wilderness when they became aware of voices. Right away, they recognized the rhythmic chanting of Vervien prayer; and surely enough, less than a minute later, they came head to head with a group of ni-Doma walking single-file towards them on the same path. They were identifiable as ni-Doma by their blue frocks, the color of which was only just becoming discernible in the growing light.

Echo and Fives stood off to one side as they passed, and the clones could not help but note the diffident, curious glances the women sent their way as they passed.

Echo caught the eye of one who smiled prettily as a manner of greeting, but no words were exchanged and the ni-Doma passed by without missing a beat of chanting.

Fives moved back onto the path to resume walking _._

Echo decided to be Echo.

"Excuse me, ladies?"

Fives felt his temperature rise. He could not believe Echo had just disrupted their prayer, as if it were the equivalent of a conversation between brothers.

The ni-Doma stopped and, as a body, turned to face the two clones.

There did not appear to be a leader among the women, so for several seconds they all stood staring but not speaking.

But that was no determent to Echo. He approached them with his characteristic amiability.

"Are we interrupting?" he asked unnecessarily, for the answer was already clear.

"We are in the midst of our morning prayer," one of the ni-Doma replied.

"Oh, well, I don't want to disturb you at prayer," Echo said.

"You already have." This came from the one who had exchanged smiles with Echo as they'd passed.

"I guess that's true," Echo grinned. "In that case, do you mind if I ask a question?"

The ni-Doma looked at each other. The smiler nodded. "Very well."

"How many times a day do you pray?"

Fives tried to hide his discomfort. He was quite certain that Echo was just getting started. There would be many more questions to come.

And there were.

Why did some brothers and sisters walk while praying? What was their god like? What made the ni-Doma want to give up their freedom to pursue a religious life? How long did it take to become a sister? How hard was it to live a celibate life?

And the more questions Echo asked, the more intrigued the women grew until they were all answering his questions with excitement and eagerness.

Then it was Echo and Fives' turn.

For the ni-Doma had a number of questions themselves; and for women in training to be religious sisters, they weren't exactly wilting flowers when it came to subject matter.

What was it like to not have a mother or a father? Was it hard to tell each other apart? Did they all like the same things – was that part of their genetic template? Being raised on Kamino, had they ever had any chance to meet girls? What did it mean that they were property of the Republic? Were they allowed to marry? Were they able to have children?

For over an hour, the two clones and the ni-Doma traded questions and answers.

And then suddenly, one of ni-Doma spoke out anxiously. "Oh! We're overdue for the morning meal! Hurry! We must hurry!"

"Can we join you?" Echo asked.

"Everyone is welcome for every meal," the same girl replied. "But we must hurry. We will surely miss the prayer of Thanksgiving. Our matrons will notice we are late. So will the Doma."

"Then let's get moving," Echo said.

"Uh, are you sure your leg is up to it? Maybe you and me should just walk slowly," Fives suggested.

"You're right," Echo conceded, then to the ni-Doma. "Will you save us a couple seats?"

The girls looked uncertain, hesitant, but at last, they all came to a sort of consensus of agreement. They would save them places. Then they took off – not at a walk, but at a run.

Rex stood outside his quarters, debating whether he wanted to take the morning meal in the hall or in the privacy of his room, when a gaggle of ni-Doma came racing down the path from the north, skidded past him and disappeared towards the Taber.

"They're in a hurry," he said out loud, although no one else was present. He stretched, drew in a deep breath, and stretched again. Seeing the ni-Doma go skittering past had made him want to go for a run himself, but he wasn't well enough yet. Too much activity might aggravate his ribs, and on top of that, his arm still felt a bit sore. Yet, he had no complaints, for he was healing much quicker than he'd have imagined possible.

So, now all that remained was to decide where to take his breakfast.

His room. He really was not in the mood for large crowds, and the peace and quiet of the Seiba Tops was something he was quickly coming to savor.

He turned to go back into his room when he heard familiar laughter; and looking back over his shoulder, he saw Echo and Fives coming down the same path from which the ni-Doma had just come.

Rex stepped out onto the path in front of them.

"Good morning, Captain!" Echo called out.

"Echo, Fives," Rex replied, and his voice contained a note of questioning concern. "Where were you?"

"We just went for a walk along the paths, Sir," Echo replied. "I've tried to do it every morning."

Rex almost dreaded asking the next question. "Did you run into a group of ni-Doma?"

"Yes, Sir." Again, it was Echo who replied.

"They were on their morning prayer walk," Fives offered helpfully.

The color was rising in the captain's cheeks. "Can either of you explain why I just saw them running full-tilt out of there?"

"They were going to be late for the morning meal, Sir," Echo answered, and Fives nodded. "We kept them for so long—"

"Kept them . . . doing what?"

"Asking questions . . . and answering questions." Echo looked puzzled, as if he could not comprehend why his captain was looking so suddenly peaked. "We wanted to know about them and their lives, and they wanted to know about us."

"Is that all you were doing?" Rex pressed.

"Yes, Sir," Echo replied. "What else would we—" He stopped suddenly as the realization hit him. "Oh—Sir, we wouldn't—that—that wouldn't reflect very well on the GAR, if we were to behave like that."

"There are plenty of brothers who, by their actions, reflect poorly on the GAR," Rex pointed out. "But I don't want any of my men to be among them."

"No, Sir! Of course not."

Rex eyed the two of them, and he saw nothing dishonest there. "Very well. Carry on."

As Fives and Echo resumed their way down the path past the Seiba Tops, Rex asked, "Where are you off to, anyways?"

"We're taking breakfast in the hall," Echo replied. "The ni-Doma are saving a couple seats for us."

Rex balked. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"We could back out, Sir," Echo said.

"That would make us seem rude," Fives put forth. In a funny turn of events, Fives, who had been distressed by Echo's overtures of friendship towards the ni-Doma, now viewed their company as welcome and something to look forward to.

"We should probably ask the Doma if it's alright for you to . . . mingle with the ni-Doma," Rex stated. "I'll come with you and find out."

The three of them headed towards the dining hall.

Right away, Rex saw the Doma in her usual place; and breathing down his reluctance, he approached her, motioning Fives and Echo to wait off to the side.

"Good morning, Captain," Maree greeted him as he approached her table. "You're looking very well today. You continue to improve."

Rex inclined his head. "Thanks to your people," he said politely. He went immediately to the subject. "Do you object to any of my men sitting with the brothers or sisters during the meals?"

The Doma looked somewhat muddled. "Not at all. They've already been sitting with them."

"What about the ni-Doma?"

"Of course, your men can sit with whomever they please," Doma Maree replied with an amused grin. "The ni-Doma are no different. They aren't like the young girls I found—" she caught herself, "—who don't know how to behave around young men."

"I just don't want to do anything to offend anyone," Rex explained.

The Doma regarded him with a knowing eye. "Are you referring to the ni-Doma who just came in late to the morning meal?"

Rex wondered if the warmth he felt in his cheeks was visible. "I was hoping they hadn't been noticed."

"They were noticed," Maree chirped. "But no harm done. Ni-Kepela explained what happened. I think it's good for the ni-Doma to meet your soldiers."

"Are you sure?"

"I have said so. I think you're more worried about it than I am."

Rex hesitated. "I'm not sure how I feel about it," he said honestly. "I'm afraid we're all growing too comfortable here."

The Doma eyed him skeptically. "But not you."

Rex's expression was neutral. "It's my job to make sure we all remember what our mission is. We won't be here for long, and I don't want them to forget their responsibilities."

"I understand," Maree said. "I have no objection to your men socializing with anyone. I trust they understand the nature of our order and that of the Austeniens and will behave accordingly."

Rex gave a noncommittal half-nod.

"Will you join us for breakfast, Captain Rex?" Au-Mikiel asked from across the table.

"Oh, thank you, but not this morning. I'm going to take my meal in the Seiba Tops," Rex replied.

"As you wish," the First Servant conceded. "Perhaps we will see you for the midday meal."

Rex gave a single nod and returned to Fives and Echo.

"Don't do anything to make me regret this," he said to them.

"Does that mean the Doma gave her permission?"

The captain nodded; and even as he gave them _his_ permission, he wondered if he was making the right decision.

* * *

"The brothers have started erecting the tents on the Caspa. Tomorrow, we will start putting them up on the Hayla Ground," Au-Mikiel informed the Doma as the two walked past the Taber on their way to check the preparations being made for the reception of thousands of pilgrims due to arrive in two days for the Me'ente Loge festival.

"Excellent," the Doma nodded approvingly. "The sisters have already begun decorating the Taber."

They walked on in silence for a few seconds, then Au-Mikiel spoke cheerfully. "I think it will be an even more memorable event this year."

Doma Maree did not pretend not to understand him. "I had truly believed that the Republic would have come and retrieved the clones by now. They've been here for six days. But, in a way, I am glad that they will be here to celebrate with us."

"They're not believers," Au-Mikiel pointed out. "Do you think they'll join in?"

Maree smiled knowingly. "Most of them, certainly. They don't have to believe in order to enjoy themselves. Food, drink, dancing – what reason would they have for not participating? I think they will be eager to join in – at least for the more festive aspects, perhaps not so much the religious rituals." A pause. "Their captain might be a bit . . . reluctant. And the ones who are still sitting vigil with their friend, they won't come. But the rest of them seem to like a good time."

"I can hardly to wait to see how they react," Au-Mikiel said. "I find them to be very agreeable and quite entertaining."

"As do I."

They came to a foot bridge over the stream that ran between the springs, and here they heard someone calling them from behind. Turning, they saw Fels Au-Gehen and Sister So'Nodor approaching along the path.

"First Servants, might we have a moment?"

"Of course," the Doma replied.

Au-Gehen and So'Nodor came and stood facing them on the bridge. They both looked somewhat discomfited.

At last, Au-Gehen spoke. "Something has been weighing heavily upon me, and I must speak my mind."

"You know you can always speak freely," Au-Mikiel assured him. "Please, go on."

Au-Gehen drew in an audible breath. "I am concerned about our visitors and the impact they are having on our way of life within these walls."

"By visitors, I take it you are referring to the clones and not our other pilgrims," the Doma supposed.

"Yes."

"What it is about them that concerns you?"

"They are . . . bringing an inappropriate influence to the Monastica. Sister So'Nodor has noticed it as well, and we've spoken about it together."

"What influence?" Au-Mikiel asked.

"A lack of . . . prudence," Au-Gehen replied.

"And want of good judgment," So'Nodor added.

"Those are failings we all share; they're not limited to the clones," the Doma pointed out.

"Yes, Doma, that is true," Au-Gehen agreed. "But those who come here usually come willingly and desire to correct their errant behavior. That is not the case with the clones. They are here by accident, and I believe they see nothing wrong with their behavior; therefore, they have no incentive to correct it."

"What behavior are you speaking of?" Au-Mikiel asked.

Au-Gehen hesitated. The color rose in his cheeks. He looked to Maree. "Doma, you have seen first-hand the lack of discretion the clones have displayed. They have absolutely no inhibitions. You must know what I am referring to. Swimming in the nude in public . . . attracting the attention of young, impressionable girls. Never had such a thing happened here until their arrival."

Au-Mikiel gave a muffled laugh.

Doma Maree smiled kindly. "Ah, Fels Au-Gehen, brother, your point is well-taken. However, I think you over-estimate the danger. I am the one who showed the clones the pool and told them they could go swimming there. They thought they would have some privacy. Admittedly, I had no idea they would decide to be . . . so natural; but I think for them, it's perfectly normal. I certainly don't think they did it to attract the girls. Speaking of whom, those young ladies knew they were acting inappropriately, but they _are_ teenaged girls. It's only natural for them to be curious. It's up to us to teach them modesty."

"But that's just it, Doma Maree," So'Nodor spoke up. "The girls knew better, but they acted wrongly anyway. The next day, they spoke of it all over the school. Every young girl in the school is just waiting for their turn to see the same thing. These clones are a great temptation, Doma."

"Is it better to resist temptation or avoid it?" Au-Mikiel queried.

"It is best to avoid it until one learns how to resist it," Au-Gehen replied.

"And how does one learn to resist that to which one is never exposed?" Au-Mikiel posed.

"But that's not all, Doma," So'Nodor moved on with the list of indiscretions. "They have been showing the boys their weapons and teaching them . . . how to fight and—and regaling with war stories."

"And what is wrong with that?" the Doma asked.

"We are peaceful orders!" So'Nodor put forth with passion. "We teach love and compassion, not violence and hatred. We are healers, not destroyers."

"Sister," Doma began, taking So'Nodor's hands in her own. "We _are_ peaceful, but you know as well as I do, that if we were attacked, we would defend ourselves. These soldiers – they are our defenders on a much greater level. They are the reason we still have the freedom to worship as we please. If the Separatists defeat them and take over this planet, we will lose that freedom. The clones are not the enemy."

"Not the enemy of freedom, but of good, sensible behavior," So'Nodor persisted. "Our boys now speak of being soldiers instead of healers. Why, yesterday, the clones were actually firing their weapons at practice targets and letting the boys watch!"

Here, Au-Mikiel intervened. "The boys in the Wayward Houses did not come here to be healers. And it has never been our intention to direct them towards becoming healers. That many have chosen such a life of their own accord has been our good fortune. But that is not the purpose of the Wayward Houses or the school." A pause. "Boys see soldiers, and they see something worth emulating. They see the clones, and there is much to be admired there."

"Then what about the clones who sat with the ni-Doma at the morning meal?" Au-Gehen pressed. "That was a spectacle. You had to recognize the flirtatious manner of interaction – on both sides. Those men were toying with young ladies who are trying to discern their path in life."

Doma Maree gave a closed-mouth grin. "I admit, the clones are charming. Everyone seems to be quite taken with them. I understand your concern, but I do not see the threat that you see. In a matter of days, they will be gone, and everything will go back to normal." She paused, and a glint of recollection came into her eye. "And if it makes you feel any better, I think their captain shares your concern. He's constantly on the lookout to make sure his men don't get too _comfortable_. He's quite the curmudgeon."

"Doma—"

"Brother, Sister, I cannot and I will not cast them out, if that is what you are suggesting," Maree said firmly. "I will not sequester them away from the rest of us. I will speak to their captain about some of the more . . . indiscreet behaviors. But they are our guests and our protectors, and I will not have them treated with anything but the greatest kindness and respect as befits Verviens and Austeniens."

Au-Gehen and So'Nodor both bowed their heads in concession. "Yes, Doma."

"Perhaps if you spent more time with them, you would feel more comfortable with their presence," Au-Mikiel suggested.

Wordless nods signaled their acknowledgment.

"Thank you for taking the time to hear us," So'Nodor said.

"Thank you for expressing your—" The Doma stopped abruptly. "What is that sound?"

A low rumbling filled the air and made it vibrate around them.

"An earthquake?" So'Nodor asked, her eyes wide and scanning around them.

"No . . . the earth isn't shaking," Au-Mikiel said. "It can't be activity from the shafts that heat the springs. We know what _that_ feels like."

"It's getting louder," Maree said.

"Look! Over there! The sand is being kicked up by something!" Au-Gehen exclaimed, pointing towards the south-west.

"Is it a sandstorm?" So'Nodor asked.

Before any answer was forthcoming, through the cloud of sand there appeared dark shadowy splotches that emerged as the leading edges of a massive craft. A spacecraft.

"It's a ship!" Au-Mikiel announced.

"Is it Republic or Separatist?" So'Nodor asked.

"I don't know," Au-Mikiel replied.

The Doma turned to her companions. "We must get back. Au-Gehen, go to the healing rooms! Make sure the injured are protected! Au-Mikiel, go to the main gate and find out if they are friendly. If not, stall them until we can make sure the clones are hidden; then I will come to meet them. So'Nodor, come with me."

The group split on their separate taskings.

"Where are we going, Doma?!" So'Nodor called out, as the two women ran back along the path.

The Doma's voice contained more urgency than So'Nodor had ever heard.

"To the Seiba Tops! I have to find Captain Rex!"

 _ **Starting to develop the Anakin attachment issues. When I wrote the Anakin scene (and rewrote and tweaked and spoke it out loud over and over again), I tried to picture it as an actual animated scene. Would Anakin say these things? Is this how he really feels about his men? I hope it's convincing, because I like to think Anakin would do just about anything for his men.**_


	19. Chapter 19

_**Dear Reader, Thanks again to LLTC, Queen Nagaina, and CRB35 for the reviews! So, here's a bow to Watership Down and one of my favorite relationships: Bigwig and Hyzenthlay (the spy and his insider). I think I made the connection in the story pretty blatant! Enjoy! CS**_

Chapter 19 The Unexpected

" _Bigwig realized that he had stumbled, quite unexpectedly, upon what he needed most of all: a strong, sensible friend who would think on her own account and help to bear his burden."_

Watership Down  
Richard Adams

* * *

An unending stream of humanity flowing narrowly across the desert.

From Rex's place on the Monastica's east-facing wall, that was what the approach of the pilgrims looked like. The brothers and sisters had stated that thousands of people came every year for something called the Me'ente Loge Festival; and this year was not expected to be an exception.

Looking out through his binoculars—freshly cleaned and functional once again—the captain began calculating—by habit—how long it would take for the first pilgrims to arrive. He estimated six or seven hours, which would put them at the gates just as the planet's star was beginning to set.

Rex had truly hoped to be gone by the time the festival started, even though he had known from the start how unlikely that was. Cody had only departed five days ago on what the brothers said was a seven-day journey. The commander's party probably had not even reached Heembab yet.

By now, the fleet surely had noted not only their failure to arrive, but also their failure to check in even once. Rex felt confident that search and rescue teams had already dispatched to find them. He held onto the possibility that they might show up any moment.

He was still of the mind that their deliverance couldn't come too soon.

In the most basic terms, he realized that he and his fellow soldiers had quite unexpectedly stumbled upon an idyllic life – something alluring and dangerous to the good order and discipline of fighting men. The natural beauty of the Monastica aside, there could be no questioning the calm, tranquil atmosphere, the kindness and generosity of the brothers and sisters, the hospitality and acceptance extended to the clones – even when they did things that didn't quite fall within the boundaries of acceptable behavior.

A few days ago, Sempe and Sixer had come to him like batch-kits sprung straight from the pod, going on about some little boys who had come to see them and the subsequent invite to speak at the school—an invite that never came. For which Rex was glad, for he would have made them decline it.

" _We're not the recruiting arm of the GAR,"_ he'd explained. _"We're the fighting arm. We were created and bred for the purpose of conducting war; we're not the best examples to sell the idea of enlisting. We had no choice. We're not the ones to be drawing in those who_ can _make a choice."_

On the other hand, he had not been opposed to the boys coming of their own accord to see the clones. In fact, he'd found such visits—which had occurred every day since the subject had been broached—to be fully enjoyable. After school there always came a brood of anywhere from fifteen to thirty boys, ranging in age from as young as five to late teens; and their fascination with the clone troopers was all-encompassing.

The troopers taught them patrol tactics, self-defense to the younger, modest hand-to-hand combat to the older – all done in fun, a good way to keep the troopers cheerfully occupied and the boys' curiosity satiated enough that they resisted the temptation to skip class.

 _Temptation._ Rex was coming to view that word in a whole new context.

What had sounded like a funny and unlikely use of the word coming from Doma Maree with regard to the clones several days ago was now proving to be an absolute truth – on all sides.

For the clones, the temptation to want to stay in such comfortable and beautiful surroundings, as opposed to sacking out in a rack bunk inside the steel hull of a ship in the middle of space was certainly understandable. The accessibility to good, genuine food prepared on the spot—and not processed nutrient bars—was also nothing to be surprised or alarmed at. The desire to spend some time at play or relaxing – the troopers definitely deserved it. Even the blatant admiration of the female population within the Monastica was nothing Rex would ever fault his men for entertaining, as long as they did not move to indulge other desires along those lines. He figured such infatuations would be short-lived enough. As soon as they were rescued, it would be back to the life of a soldier.

On the opposite side, he was beginning to see what the Doma had meant when she'd spoken of the temptations the clones presented. It seemed to Rex that he and his men were the most popular thing going within these walls. They had no shortage of visitors—mostly brothers and sisters stopping by to make sure their needs were being met. Fels Au-Ogusta came by every day, usually more than once, as he had been appointed to look after the clones. The Doma visited every day, usually after the evening meal, to inquire if the day had gone well – and to make sure none of the more brazen young ladies had somehow found a way to the clones' quarters. On top of that, there were the school boys and some of the Beginners among the brothers.

It was all very welcoming, like a warm blanket on a cold day.

The war felt so far away.

And that was not a good thing. For the truth was quite the opposite: the war was still raging, and Rex and his men were supposed to be a part of it. The respite of the Monastica was just an illusion, an oasis of peace within a galaxy at war.

A sudden, subtle vibration in the air pulled his attention from its current ponderings; and relying on the heightened senses that only a bounty hunter like Jango Fett could have possessed and passed on through his template, Rex was shortly able to discern a humming sound; and by way of nothing other than the means of his own hearing, he triangulated from where the sound was coming.

Turning, he could see a pinprick in the western sky, far off on the horizon. He wished he had his helmet and access to its telescopic features. But it was with the rest of his armor back in his room and only partially operational.

The pinprick was growing larger, the humming louder, the vibration more palpable. To most humans, none of the signs of its approach would have been detectable with the naked senses; but the clones had been manipulated from the moment of their genesis to have superior faculties. And Rex had grown so finely tuned to even the slightest disturbance of his surroundings, that there were times when he appeared to almost have a sixth sense.

The drone of engines came unmistakably across the expanse of desert to the south-west.

" _Perfidio Class landing craft. They're Separatists!"_ Rex did not need to see the ship close up to know what was headed their way. The sound was enough.

He jumped down from the wall in two leaps, feeling the impact of each in his still-healing ribs. But that did not slow his dash back to the Seiba Tops. It took him less than two minutes to run six hundred meters; and when he arrived back at the Seiba Tops, aching and out of breath, he was yet able to raise his voice loud enough to bring most of the clones outside.

Sixer was one of the first to emerge; and seeing him ready and alert as always, Rex once more patted himself on the back for making him part of the follow-on team. Sempe, like an orbiting satellite, followed, as did the others, bit by bit.

"What is it, Captain?" Sixer asked urgently.

"Separatists," Rex replied between heaving breaths. "From the south-west. Perfidio class lander." Damn, his side was starting to really hurt again. He pushed the pain aside. Looking out at the gathered faces, he immediately knew they were short. "Who are we missing—besides the ones in the hospital?"

"Zinger, Little Ride, and Bounce took off with some of the brothers to go help them fix one of the thermal converters," Tip spoke up. "They left over an hour ago."

"Ajax and DB went off for a swim," March added.

"Tip, go bring back the two-twelvers. March, get Ajax and DB. Make it fast!" Rex ordered, then to Sixer. "How many weapons do we have that are operational?"

"All of them but Little Ride's, Sir," Sixer replied.

"Everyone! Go get your weapons and report back here. We've got to make some plans and make them quickly."

As the others hurried off, Rex began ticking off the details of the situation in his mind. He couldn't possibly invite open fighting within the Monastica; too many innocent lives would be caught in the cross-fire. He couldn't take his men out into the desert; there was no cover. Surrender was never an option. If he could lead his men to a defensible position where there were few residents, that would be the best he could hope for. But he did not know the terrain; he'd not been out and about as much as his soldiers. He would have to rely on them for recommendations.

Sixer was the first to return.

"Did you want us to get into our armor, Sir?"

"No, no time for that . . . and we can blend in better without it," Rex replied. "Sixer, you've been up on the northern paths. Is there any place we could use as a defensive position?"

Sixer was thoughtful. He looked down in concentration. The vein in his neck pulsed beneath the brilliant tattoo he wore of what was known as an old-fashioned "six gun" on the side of his neck. Other than that single distinguishing mark, he looked the same as he did the day he graduated from training. He wanted only to be known as lethal, and the six gun was his symbol.

It was his own fault that he had earned a reputation for being reliable and quick-thinking. Yet, he took pride in such attributes, especially when bestowed by his captain.

"There's a rocky plateau on the northeast side of the main spring," he said after a few seconds. "It gives a good range of view, and there's decent cover. Do we know if we're dealing with droids?"

"I don't know that yet," Rex replied. "Once the rest get back, I'm going to leave you in charge. I have to warn Jesse and the others. They'll have to defend against anyone who comes into the healing rooms. I need their weapons to take with me. Then I'm going to go get a closer look at who's come calling."

"Sir, you should take someone with you," Sixer put forth. "Take Sempe."

The rest were returning with their weapons. "I think I'll manage—" Rex began, but Sixer cut him off.

"I mean no disrespect, Captain, but you're still injured. And you looked pretty rough when you got here just now. Please, Captain, take Sempe with you."

Rex could not help but recognize how much Sixer was following after Jesse's example. He gave a curt nod and turned to Sempe. "You're with me."

"Yes, Sir."

"Are any of our comms working?" Rex asked.

"Only a couple in the helmets, Sir. None of the wrist communicators are working," Sixer replied.

"Eh, that's no good." Rex began collecting the weapons for his men in the hospital, slinging a couple over his good shoulder and handing the others to Sempe to carry. He was about to order one of his men to go retrieve his pistols, but at that moment, Slip spoke up.

"Sir, we've got company."

Rex turned to see the Doma and another woman—the school matron, her name eluded him—running towards them. It was actually a humorous scene, and had the situation not been so dire, Rex might have found good reason to laugh.

The two women had none of the dignity with which Rex had marked the sisters. They ran, not in the dainty way of cultured ladies, but with the graceless flail of haste and urgency, frocks scrunched in their fists, collectedness of appearance giving way to a disheveled presentation.

"Captain Rex." The Doma pulled up first, caught her breath, then taking in sight of the gathered clones and their weapons, went straight to the point. "You've seen the ship?"

"Yes. They're Separatists."

"Are you sure?" Maree asked between panting breaths.

"Positive."

"What are you planning to do?"

"We're going to defend ourselves," Rex replied curtly. "If we can avoid them, we will; but if they find us, we have to fight. Sixer says there's a defensible location near the springs. Most of the men will go there. I'm heading to the healing rooms to make sure those men are protected—"

"Captain, wait," the Doma interjected. "There are better places to hide. We have vast underground grottoes here, and they are not readily visible. And if the Separatists do discover you there, they are much better to defend."

Rex looked at her with a hard stare for only a moment. "How far?"

"The nearest entrance is just behind here," she replied, nodding towards the rows of the Seiba Tops. "You could make it inside before any Separatists reach this area."

"What about my men in the healing rooms?"

"I have already sent someone to take care of them. They will be safe," Maree replied. "We have ways of concealment." Seeing Rex's skepticism, she took on an imploring voice. "Trust me, Captain. This is my sanctuary, and we've had unwelcome visitors before. We know what to do."

Rex did not need long to consider, and he knew time was not their ally. "Show us the entrance."

Maree turned to So'Nodor. "Show them the way. I must go back to the gate."

"Yes, Doma," So'Nodor replied.

"Sixer, you're in charge. Make sure you send someone back here to show the others where to go when they return. Sempe, you're still with me," Rex said, then he turned to follow the Doma as the rest of his men went with Sister So'Nodor.

"What—what are you doing, Captain?" Maree asked.

"We're coming with you," Rex replied. "I need to know what's going on."

"Oh, Captain, I don't think that's a good idea. What if they see you?" she protested.

Rex was not going to argue. "We'll stay hidden," he said in such a way as to thwart any disagreement. "Let's go."

* * *

If Rex had not imagined his injuries would much hamper his movement, he now discovered that adrenaline was not always the answer to every situation. He was definitely dragging, but he continued on, cursing the weight of the blasters he carried over his shoulder, cursing himself for forgetting his own side arms, cursing the desert heat, cursing the fleet-footed woman ahead of him who kept looking back with—what was it, annoyance, mixed with resolution.

They passed the Taber and skirted along one side of the botanical garden. Coming to the rear of the healing houses, they stepped inside and the Doma stopped to face the two clones. "It would be best for both of you to put on lungees. That will make you look more like the rest of the brothers."

"What—" Sempe began to ask, but when the Doma snagged two brothers down in the hall and spoke a few quick words in their native tongue, her meaning became apparent. The lunge was the headdress the men wore. The two brothers took off their own lungees and wound them atop the clones' heads, so that, minus the plaits of hair, they looked like many of the brothers.

"Sempe, go up and find the others," Rex said, handing over one of the blasters and keeping the other for himself.

"They have probably already taken them to the grottoes," the Doma stated. "Only Kix would not be moved. And the sisters will have already concealed his identity."

"How can they—"

"Truly, captain, there is no time to go into all the details," Maree pressed. "I must go, and if you are coming with me, then we must make haste."

Rex looked to Sempe, as stalwart and exemplary a clone as any commander could ask for. He trusted him, and now he was glad Sixer had suggested he come along. "Go up there. If any of our men are still there, stay with them. Otherwise, take cover. And stay on your toes." He looked to Doma Maree. "Lead the way."

They left the house of healing, but instead of walking or running, the Doma called for a Losla cart and driver. As they sped towards the gate, Maree began to speak her thoughts.

"Do they have a way of tracking clones specifically?" she asked. "Some sort of trace scanner?"

"Not that I know of," Rex replied. "But if they see us, it's possible—maybe likely—they would recognize us. It depends on who or what comes off of that ship. Battle droids have visual identification scanners built in. One good look, and they'd know who we are. Sentients might not."

"Then, as we get closer, I will drop you off and you can make your way as far as you deem safe," the Doma said. "And I would suggest . . . " She reached over, drew down a few wraps of the lungee so that they loosely covered the bottom of his face. "Just in case." She continued on. "I will do my best to persuade whoever is in charge that we are not harboring any Republic troops, but if they insist on searching, I will allow it—"

"What?"

"I assure you, Captain Rex, your men are safer than you are," she said with certainty. "And we will do everything in our power to make sure they remain so. I have little fear that the enemy will find them. The grottoes have been the Monastica's refuge for centuries. However, if I refuse to allow the Separatists to search, they may use force and end up injuring or killing many of the people for whom I am responsible. But rest assured, I won't give in too easily. That would make them suspicious, as well."

Rex realized quite suddenly that whatever discomfort he had felt in the Doma's presence, he now could not be more grateful for her reasoned and sensible approach to a situation that was precarious to not only the clones but to the Monastica's population, as well. Such an ally was precisely what he needed.

The Doma was still speaking. "You had better hide that weapon in your garment. That will be a dead give-away. If you see that they are going to search, you must retreat to the healing houses. The brothers and sisters will show you how to reach the grottoes."

"I don't run from a fight," Rex huffed. "And I don't like the idea of leaving a woman to cover my tracks."

The Doma looked at him sideways, and it was not an expression Rex would have expected to ever see on her face – a sort of sardonic chastisement without words. "It won't be a fight unless you make it one, Captain. And don't think of me as covering your tracks. I am trying to avoid unnecessary bloodshed—not just yours and your men's, but everyone's. Like you said, depending on what comes off that ship, any attempt to fight them could be a losing proposition."

"Right," was all the captain would allow.

A minute later, the Doma ordered the driver to stop. "We let you off here, Captain. Be careful."

Rex jumped down and looking back at the Doma, he was surprised—and somewhat put off—to see her fussing with her hair.

"What are you doing? Shouldn't you get up there?" he snapped, sounding more military than he'd intended.

"It would be unseemly for the leader of any people to appear rushed and harried. That would work to the enemy's advantage. It's important that I at least appear to be on equal footing, to be calm and in control," came the reply as she tried to push the sloppy, fallen mop of black ringulets into its place atop her head.

Rex looked at her flushed face, the ruffled frock, and the hopelessly ruined hair. And for the first time, he thought she was rather pretty, though no less intimidating.

But under the circumstances, all that came out was, "I guarantee you, no Separatist leader is going to give a damn what you look like. Just act towards them the same way you've acted towards me, and that will be authoritative enough. Now get up there."

Before any answer could be given, Rex bounded off into the Hayla grove and began picking his way up through the trees.

Doma Maree looked after him for a moment, then she turned and muttered under her breath. "How can such an ass be so charming?" To her driver, "Go on, Au-Currie. But make it at a dignified pace."


	20. Chapter 20

_**Dear Reader, My thanks again to my reviewers! I was going to wait til next week for this one, but I decided, "Eh, what the heck!" I hope you enjoy and have a good weekend. Oh, and if you don't know what I'm describing with a Copian, they're related to the Aqualish (think of the guy who accosted Luke in the cantina in Mos Eisley - to quote Dogma, "Gross!") Peace, CS**_

* * *

Chapter 20 Hiding

" _Opening his arms, he said quietly to her, 'Disappear here.'"_

-Jonathan Carroll

* * *

Doma Maree stepped down from the Losla cart, and no one would have had a single reason to believe that she'd been rushing and concealing and scheming for the past ten minutes. With her composure reconstituted, she appeared very much the holy woman for whom time stood still, whose calm could not be scattered by the arrival of an enemy.

She approached Au-Mikiel, who was in some manner of conversation with what had to be one of the most unattractive beings the Doma had ever seen. She had never met a Copian before – or even seen images of one. And her first impression of the species was not to prove a positive one.

Copians were bipedal and stood roughly the same height as a human. Two fleshy lobes took the location of where a human's mouth would be, and just above the lobes were a set of gills, remnants of their aquatic past. Bulbous, opaque eyes showed little detectable emotion, unless you were a fellow Copian – and in that case, much was discernible.

The Copian with Au-Mikiel was dressed in what was clearly a military uniform, but with a certain flair for the ostentatious, as a bright multi-orange-hued sash hung diagonally across his chest, and each of the four skinny, clawed fingers on each hand was gaudily adorned with large, jewel-encrusted rings.

Given the Copian's vocal structure, they could not form the sounds used in Basic; hence, a translator droid stood by the Copian's side.

Au-Mikiel stepped up to meet the Doma. "Doma Maree, this is Lord Admiral Vrehnka of the Copian Navy. He is here on behalf of the Confederacy of Independent Systems."

The Doma inclined her head in a slight nod. "Greetings, Admiral Vrehnka. You are welcome here, friend."

The droid translated, received a response from the admiral, whose gestures were both dismissive and disturbingly fey, as if he were acting in a scene and doing a very bad job of it.

The droid spoke. "Your planet of Bertegad is aligned with the Republic. I am not your friend. But I am also not your enemy. Not yet."

"Bertegad may be aligned, but within these walls, we are a peaceful society. We take no sides," the Doma replied.

"That remains to be seen," came the translated rejoinder.

"Might I ask what brings you here, Admiral? Surely, you have not come as a pilgrim," the Doma queried.

Here, Au-Mikiel spoke up. "Doma, he said he has come in search of survivors from a ship that crashed in the desert."

Still directing her attention to the admiral, she asked, "A crash? When did it happen?"

"Recently, within the last two weeks of this planet's standard. But that is of no matter. The ship was crewed by clones. If the survivors arrived here, you would know. They would all look alike."

Maree looked to Au-Mikiel. "This sounds like nothing we have seen."

"No, Doma."

Looking back to Admiral Vrehnke, the Doma said, "I would not know a clone if I saw one, but I suppose if several had shown up, we would—as you said—recognize that they were all the same. But we have had no such visitors: not within the last two weeks, and not before that. Could it be that they perished in the crash?"

"Our scanners were able to locate the wreckage beneath that . . . sand pile out there, and when we dug it out, there were no bodies. Not a single one. We know there were precisely twenty-two clones on that ship. Not only that, but they had information that belongs to us. I mean to retrieve it."

Maree shook her head with perfectly affected earnestness. "If anyone were to survive a crash in the desert, it is unlikely they would survive the desert itself. The Sandheim is very unforgiving."

"And clones are very resourceful," came Vrehnka's translated reply. A string of snorts and grunts that were clearly animated with hand gestures and head tosses preceded the next translation. "Dirty little beasts! Like the kanker-ants of Copia! Running back and forth at the Jedi's call! Fit for nothing other than to be crushed beneath my boot!"

The droid did a credible job of conveying the emotion behind the mini-tirade.

"I'm afraid I can't comment on that, Lord Admiral," Maree replied with a perfectly false smile.

"Humph! Your comments are not needed." A pause as the admiral walked past the Doma and surveyed the scene before him for a moment. "You will not mind if we search this place. After all, the clones may have snuck in while you were off praying or something. They are sneaky, desperate creatures – like bog flies—" He seemed to forget that only seconds ago, they were kanker-ants. "And having them in your midst could be dangerous. If we find any, we will remove them. That will do you well. I am sure you have no objection."

The Doma stepped around in front of him and put a hand on his arm. "Actually, I do have an objection. Lord Admiral, we are healing orders, and we have many patients here whom I would prefer not be disturbed."

"I have no interest in disturbing your patients," Vrehnka replied. "Unless some of your patients are clones."

Behind him, just inside the gate, stood a dozen more Copian officers. At a signal from their admiral, they came forward.

"Take your squads and conduct a full search."

"I will send some of the brothers to escort your men—" the Doma began, but the admiral had turned and was already walking away.

Still, that did not deter the Doma. She waved Au-Mikiel to her side. "Send men to keep an eye on them."

"Yes, Doma."

"With any luck, they will conduct their search and be gone—" She cut off at the sound of heavy, rhythmic, metallic clanking. Both she and Au-Mikiel looked towards the gate . . .

* * *

" _Clankers! Fek and all!"_

From his hiding place among the Hayla groves, Rex swore in silence then drew back behind the full cover of one particularly verdant bush.

The moment he'd seen Admiral Vrehnka's hideous visage, he'd known things could get very bad. Vrehnka was well known for his visceral hatred of the clone troopers. It rankled the admiral to no end that manufactured beings, led often by only a single Jedi, could win any victory for their side. They had no lineage, no distinguished histories to uphold, no respect for tenure. The admiral viewed the clones as insects, worthy only to be exterminated . . . unless they could be tortured first, which was always the pinnacle of fine entertainment. It was what the Copians were best known for.

Admiral Vrehnke was a temperamental, overly dramatic pincushion, easily set off, and with an inflated sense of his own importance. Of course, such an ego always found slights, even where none existed. Vrehnka felt the Separatist leadership undervalued his worth, and so when he was given tasks like pursuing a ship full of clones as opposed to participating in a great space battle, for example, he immediately felt the sting of insult. Dithering about after clones was a waste of his skills! He should be going head-to-head in a battle of wits with some Republic Navy fleet commander.

Rex's only consolation was that Vrehnka's disdain for the clones was so intense that he was unlikely to spend much time searching for them. They were beneath him. But then, he also knew that Vrehnka liked to get the job done, and he wasn't sloppy about it.

He'd watched the Doma entreat with the admiral; and although he could not hear the words being spoken, he could see she was putting on a good show. He wondered, tangentially, if it was somehow permissible for a holy person to lie in the face of danger. If they survived this search, he would ask the Doma.

He turned and began running back through the grove, coming to the healing houses. He went straight up to the rooms where the last of his injured brothers, Kix, Puzzle, and Keeper, had been housed. Puzzle and Keeper were gone, and their rooms looked as if they'd not been occupied as recently as only a few moments ago. Coming to Kix's room, he stopped short, thinking perhaps he'd entered the wrong room, despite how many times he'd already been there.

He moved tentatively up to the bed for a closer look. The man lying there had his entire head and half of his face swathed in bandages. The side of his face that was visible looked as if it had been gruesomely burned.

"Did the Doma send you here?"

Rex startled, so much so that he drew his weapon as he whirled around. It was Fels Au-Gehen.

The brother reflexively held up his hands. "It's just me! You can put that thing away!"

Rex lowered the blaster. "I'm sorry. I—I . . . " He had no time for lengthy apologies. "Is this—is this Kix under all this stuff?"

"Yes, it is," Au-Gehen replied. "The nurses are very good at concealment. You and your men aren't the first time we've had fugitives here."

 _Fugitives?_

It was an interesting choice of words, but Rex could not indulge his curiosity at the moment.

"Where are the others?"

"They've all been moved down to the grottoes," Au-Gehen replied. "Including the one you sent here to check on the others."

"Puzzle? Keeper? They're down there, too?"

"Every clone who was up here is now in the grottoes . . . except this one." A pause. "Did the Doma send you here?" he asked again.

"No, no, I—I came here on my own," Rex replied. "They had battle droids with them, and I had to get away before they recognized me."

"So, they are Separatists," Au-Gehen presumed with a heavy sigh.

"Yes," Rex said in a clipped tone. "And I guess I need to get to the grottoes now, too, although . . . although I don't feel right about leaving Kix here alone."

"He is not alone, Captain," came the reply, and there was a look of sad resignation in Au-Gehen's eyes that Rex couldn't quite figure out. The brother looked away, down the hall, for a moment and called out to someone out of Rex's line-of-sight.

A moment later, one of the sisters—Rex recognized her as being the tall, attractive sister whom he had often seen listening to Echo's stories—appeared in the doorway.

"Show him to the grottoes," Au-Gehen instructed. "Then come back here immediately."

"Yes, Fels."

"Follow me, Captain."

Rex followed.

* * *

Doma Maree watched the ranks of droids as they passed, and once they had dispersed under the leadership of their Copian officers, she found herself unpleasantly addressed once again by Admiral Vrehnka.

"You are aware, holy woman, that if we do find any of the clones here, you may end up forfeiting your own life and that of every member of your . . . religious community," he grunted through the translator droid. "Not for harboring them, but for concealing them."

"That would be a reaction out of all proportion to the offense," the Doma replied in a haughty manner, one that she imagined the admiral would appreciate as indicative of his own fashion. "But I do not fear it. There are no clones here."

"I hope so, for your sake."

"Why do you think they would be here? Did they crash close by? We would have seen that," the Doma asked.

"We found the ship approximately 150 klicks due west—"

"A hundred and fifty klicks?! And you think they could have made it here? I don't mean to insult you, Admiral, but that's . . . quite a stretch. A hundred and fifty klicks of open desert, with the heat and the sandstorms, not to mention the desert predators. I think it more likely that your clones, if they survived the crash, succumbed to the Sandheim," the Doma said. "They would have to be super-human to have lasted more than a couple days."

"We shall see."

After another silence, Maree probed again. "For a man of your stature and rank to be sent in the pursuit of clones, they must have had something of great value to the Confederacy."

"And who are you to ask about such things?" Vrehnka snorted.

"I am the woman in charge of the place in which you and your forces now find themselves," the Doma replied. "My God gives me the freedom to inquire. You have the freedom not to answer."

Vrehnka made a chortling noise that might have been a laugh. "Your _freedom_ comes from the Confederacy having no interest in this planet or its people. But you can believe me: if Count Dooku ever decides Bertegad has some use, your freedom will be in _my_ hands!"

"That is an illusion, Admiral," Maree replied. "But one that only reality will be able to deprive you of." With that, she walked to where Au-Mikiel was standing with several other brothers, conversing quietly.

"You're not trying to make him angry, are you, Maree?" Au-Mikiel asked.

"I'm trying not to get angry myself," the Doma replied.

"Anger is a grave sin," Au-Mikiel warned.

"So is doing nothing in the face of such evil."

* * *

Au-Ogusta was surprised at how haphazard the patrol was. He'd considered that droids must be very methodical in their undertakings, certainly with regard to search patterns. Perhaps it was the fact that they were being led by a sentient, but then again . . . it could just be that these droids were not well-programmed. He would have called them dimwitted, except, as machines, they had no wits. He found they were easily distracted, especially when their Copian officer was not immediately present to keep them focused.

The patrol Au-Ogusta had chosen to _escort_ had gone straight through the healing houses, past the Taber, and to the far northern wall. From there, they began their search coming back from that end. They swept through the area around the origin spring and came down through the wilderness where only that morning Echo and Fives had been entertaining the ni-Doma.

Much to Au-Ogusta's relief, they passed right by several well-hidden openings to the grottoes without noticing. They avoided the Vervien and Austenien residences, as those were being checked by another patrol. And then they moved west, coming eventually to the Seiba Tops.

This would be the first test, but Au-Ogusta was not overly worried. The brothers and sisters knew their jobs well. Still, he felt a few drops of sweat rolling down his neck, and his insides tightened a bit.

He waited until the droids had checked every single room, then he allowed himself a look inside.

Perfect. Everything was perfect. The rooms were freshly made, and not a sign of armor, weapons, or anything "clone".

Au-Ogusta was starting to think they might be able to pull this off.

"Captain, we've found an opening around back that appears to lead underground."

Au-Ogusta turned his head to see the battle droid that had just made the report.

"Do you want us to investigate, Sir?" the droid asked.

"Take a squad and check it out," the captain said in his own language, for the droids were programmed to understand Copian speak. "Contact me if you find anything. Otherwise, be back at the gate at 1600. I'll take the rest of the platoon to check out these other buildings."

"Roger, roger."

The rest of the patrol moved on, minus the squad that went to investigate the opening. Au-Ogusta accompanied the latter, glad that the officer had chosen to go on ahead.

As they entered the passage, he spoke loudly. "These old passages were used to work on the water ducts. They have been abandoned for many years now and are considered very dangerous. You must watch for falling rock—"

"We don't need a Republic supporter telling us how to do our job," one of the droids interrupted in what was a surprisingly snarky voice for a machine.

Au-Ogusta raised his voice a notch. "I just wanted to give you a warning."

* * *

"Do you hear that?"

March's sudden inquiry, spoken in a whispered hiss, sharpened everyone's attention.

The unmistakable sound of a battle droid's voice. The nasal, whiny, high-pitched, grating sound that had to have been the worst possible selection for a tonal modulator.

"Battle droids!" Bounce grimaced.

Sixer held up his hand, commanding silence. In the darkness, lit only by the subtle glow of volcanic thermals pulsing through streaks of clear obsidian rock, he turned to face the brother beside him. His name was Fels Au-Heilik, and he'd joined them shortly after they'd entered the underground passageway, sending Sister So'Nodor back to the surface to ensure the quarters were put in proper order.

Instead of heading all the way down into the deepest reaches of the grottoes, Au-Heilik led the clones about two hundred meters through the tunnel where both sides bowed out to form an irregular but somewhat circular opening roughly ten meters across and interspersed with natural columns of rock. Au-Heilik had called it the bee hive, due to its shape. And here, he'd shown them one of the grottoes' defenses.

"This lever opens one of the thermals and feeds it into small boreholes in the ceiling rock of the passageway. When the steam hits those boreholes, it will blow the rock to bits and bring the ceiling down, blocking the passage," he'd explained.

"We won't be trapped, will we?" Sixer had asked.

"No, there are many more entrances, but they all have this same feature, so that we can block them if we need to."

Now, Sixer saw Au-Heilik looking at him anxiously, awaiting word from him on what he wanted to do.

"If they keep coming, blow it," Sixer whispered without hesitation.

"It will appear as nothing more than a cave-in," Au-Heilik said. "It should not make them suspicious."

"They're battle droids," Zinger smirked. "First sign of trouble and they'll turn back."

Au-Heilik perked up for a moment, listening. "That is Au-Ogusta's voice. He is sending us a warning. That means they are coming." He looked to Sixer. "Blow it?"

Sixer grinned. "Too bad Pitch isn't here for this. Blow it."

Au-Heilik used both hands and pulled down the lever.

At first, it appeared nothing was happening, but then there was a shiver and shimmy in the tunnel.

The ceiling began to come down.

Dust and sand and steam remnants billowed back into the bee hive. The clones took cover behind the rock pillars.

When the tumult had passed, Sixer raised his head and caught the smiling gaze of Au-Heilik.

"Success?" Sixer asked.

"Success."

On the other side of the cave-in, the scene was a bit more chaotic.

"Agghh!"

There was nothing more ridiculous or more forlorn than the cry of a battle droid.

At least, that was Au-Ogusta's first thought upon hearing the sound.

His warning had worked, and the ceiling ahead of the patrol was now collapsed. No droids had been caught in the cave-in, but it had startled them and now they puttered in disarray.

"This place _is_ dangerous," one droid noted. "I think we should go back."

A chorus of "roger, roger" rose up.

"We have our mission," the squad leader asserted.

"But we can't get through there, Sergeant."

"We can clear the debris."

"How long will that take?"

"I don't want to do that."

"There might be another cave-in."

Au-Ogusta was incredulous that the Separatists could hope to win any conflict with soldiers like these.

At last, the beleaguered platoon leader gave in. "Fine! We'll go look somewhere else."

Au-Ogusta smiled to himself as he followed them out into the open air.

Perhaps the battle droids were more sentient— _and dimwitted_ —than he'd given them credit for.

* * *

Fels Au-Gehen made himself as agreeable as possible.

He had many sick and injured lying in the healing houses, and he did not want this intrusion to do anything that might upset the delicate balance that was keeping some of those sick and injured alive.

The officer who was in charge of the patrol going through this wing of the healing houses had every appearance of being disinterested. He himself had been the one to actually go into the room where Kix was lying, give the room a cursory glance, and then declare the room clear. He continued to go languidly from room to room, rechecking where his droids had already looked, but not really paying any serious attention to what he was doing.

Instead, he chatted on through the battle droid who acted as his translator.

"I share the admiral's view that this mission is beneath us. But Count Dooku isn't to be trifled with, so we must do his bidding. The information on those consoles must be very important. If we hadn't found indication that the clones had downloaded some of the data, we could have just retrieved the consoles and left this planet. But now, we dare not tell the Count that we found the consoles, but the information is still in Republic hands." A pause while the droid caught up, then at last, "Pity you and your people had to be caught up in this. The Republic makes enemies of its friends in just this way."

"We take no sides in the war," Au-Gehen replied. "Hostility is not part of our way of life. That our planet's leadership has chosen to side with the Republic is not a representation of this Monastica."

The Copian officer eyed him curiously for a moment. "A very reasonable stance."

Another battle droid arrived with its report. "Sir, we've finished clearing this wing. There are no signs of the clones."

"Then let's move to our next objective." But before the officer departed, he reached into a breast coat pocket and removed a small device. "If we find nothing here—and you should hope we don't—we will continue our search in the desert and the populated areas. Just in case the clones happen to find their way here, you can use this to contact us."

Au-Gehen narrowed his eyes. "Is it not possible that the Republic has already come and picked up its men?"

"Possible, but unlikely," the officer replied. "Our scanners showed no ion signatures to indicate that a Republic ship has been here any time recently."

Au-Gehen looked at the device in the clawed hand. "I have said we are neutral. I would no more turn in Republic troops to the Confederacy than I would do the opposite."

"You can be neutral. But take it anyways. You may find that if Republic troops show up, they may not be as . . . hospitable as we are. You may want them gone as soon as possible. We can help you with that."

Au-Gehen reached out and took the device.

"I will have no use for it," he said.

"Then it will be a trinket." The officer turned to leave. "And if the clones do show up here, you will find it very useful."


	21. Chapter 21

_**Dear Reader, Thanks again to my wonderful reviewers, and my first review from TeeterTotter. You are all keeping me motivated! Now, maybe it's the Chesterton in me, but there's a bit of description in this one! I like to describe to places, and the Taber is a mixture between the beautiful Hindu temple, Meenakshi Amman, in Madurai; and just about any Eastern Orthodox church around! I also give a shout-out to the Diathim (Angel) episode. Lastly, in case you are not aware, I absolutely am not a fan of what they've done with Rex in Rebels. I just don't see how this fit, stunning soldier turns into a fat, slovenly . . . full size version of one of the 7 dwarves! So, I kind of take a shot at that in this chapter! Not too blatant, but all in good fun. Enjoy! Peace, CS.**_

Chapter 21 Approaching Daylight

" _So at last the crow said he would go. After many days, he began to see a little light ahead of him, and then more and more until at last the sky was full of sunshine. Now he was able to stop and rest, and he looked all about to see where the light was coming from; for this was a strange country to him."_

 _The Crow and the Daylight  
_ Richard Adams (from The Unbroken Web, a collection of folk tales)

* * *

"What do you think is happening up there?" Pitch asked, getting to his feet and walking to stand at the mouth of the passageway through which he and his brothers had come. They were now in a large cavern of underground pools and bizarre rock formations, with many tunnels leading off in all directions. Even the passage that had led them to this place had branches and off-shoots.

Had it not been for their guide, Au-Sinti, they would have had no idea where to go and would likely have gotten lost in the labyrinth.

"They must still be searching," Rex replied. He turned to the sister who had brought him to join the others. Her name was Anaide, and like the Doma, she was calm and disciplined. "I don't like being down here and not knowing what's going on. Can't you go up and see what's happening?"

"I do not want to risk them seeing me coming out of one of the openings," Anaide replied.

"How will we know when it's safe to go back up?" Rex asked.

"Someone will come down and let us know."

Rex stood up and paced a few steps. "I wish I was in communication with my men."

"That is understandable," Anaide said. "If you truly want to speak with them and be sure they are safe, I can lead you through the passages, but it is a long way if they entered at the Seiba Tops."

"No, I think it's better to stay here," Rex replied.

Anaide rose and stood behind him, slightly off to one side. "If I may, Captain Rex . . . you look like you are in pain."

"Eh, I just . . . all the running around has aggravated my ribs, but it's nothing I can't handle."

"Perhaps you should sit down and rest," she suggested. "There is nothing to do now but wait. You should take advantage of this time."

"She's right, Captain." This came from Jesse who now joined them. "You do look pretty rough, Sir."

"If I took a rest every time you or someone else told me I looked _rough_ , I'd spend my entire life in bed," Rex retorted, though with no animus. "It's just all the movement. Once this is over, I'll rest then."

"Will you at least let me take a look and make sure there is no fresh bruising?" Anaide asked.

"That's fine," Rex said. He gave her his side, and she carefully lifted the long tunic.

She pressed her hand gently against his ribs, and he flinched away from her touch. "That hurts you?"

"A little."

"I can see some new bruising. It does not look too serious, but you must be cautious, Captain. You do not want to puncture a lung," Anaide warned.

"Huh, that won't matter if we're discovered," Rex said.

At that moment, a call came from down the passageway.

"It's Fels Au-Finz! I'm coming in!"

Au-Sinti moved to join Pitch at the mouth of the passageway.

"Come!"

A few seconds later, Au-Finz entered the cavern. "The Separatists have left."

"Are you certain?" Au-Sinti asked.

"The Doma sent word. Fels Au-Gehen told me to come down and tell you."

Rex drew away from Anaide's examination. "Is everyone safe?"

"As far as I know—" Au-Felz began.

"Kix?" This interruption came from Jesse, Hardcase at his side.

"He is safe."

Jesse blew out a breath of relief. Behind him, Hardcase reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Let's get up there." Rex was already heading up the passageway, pausing only long enough to allow Au-Felz to go ahead of him to lead the way.

Coming up into the concealed entrance inside the west wing of the healing rooms, Rex came almost immediately face-to-face with Fels Au-Gehen. At the same time, he could feel the familiar vibration of ion-powered engines.

"That would be your enemy departing," Au-Gehen stated. "It appears the Creator has been gracious."

Rex had no idea how to respond to such a statement, so he fell back on simple gratitude and nodded his appreciation. "I need to get to the Seiba Tops, make sure everyone else is okay."

"Captain, the Separatists have left without incident," Au-Gehen told him. "The Doma herself sent word that it was safe for you and your men to come up from the grottoes."

"Yes, but, uh, I like to check things out for myself. I'll feel better when I see that all my men are safe and accounted for," Rex replied. He turned to face the men who had come up behind him from the tunnels. "Sempe, Jesse, Hardcase, come with me." A pause. "Just in case we run into trouble." For Rex was not convinced anything was safe until he ascertained it himself.

He'd known when he'd summoned Jesse and Hardcase to go with him that he was pulling them away from where they wanted to be, but he also knew them well enough to know they would never disobey him – not even for one of their squad mates. One of the things Rex was best known for in the GAR was his ability to gain the unwavering loyalty of his men, to the point where they would follow his lead, not out of duty, but out of trust, respect, and a sort of bond that in many ways transcended the bond between squad mates. Rex simply had a charisma that he could turn on at will to draw people to him, and he knew it. Where it had come from and how it had developed, he had no idea. He only knew that he was meant to be out in front, meant to lead men, and he took great care to ensure his men's trust and faith was well-earned.

He had proof now as Jesse and Hardcase, without even an instant of hesitation, gave sharp nods of acknowledgment.

"I will come with you, as well," Au-Sinti offered.

The five of them set off at a pace that quickly reminded Rex that he was once again unwell, so he slowed it down to ward off any concern or warning that Jesse might be considering; for Jesse very often found himself playing the role of . . . perhaps not caretaker, but as second-in-command, he did feel a responsibility to keep an eye out for his captain's safety. And Rex did have a tendency to rush ahead full-steam into every dangerous situation that presented itself. It wasn't foolhardiness; rather, it was supreme confidence in his own abilities.

It took thirty minutes for them to reach the Seiba Tops. No clones were to be seen, so Rex led the way around the back to the entrance into the grottoes. They went inside and after a hundred meters, they found the way blocked by a cave-in.

"When did this happen?" Rex said, not expecting an answer. "Were they even able to get into the grottoes?"

"There is another entrance nearby," Au-Sinti said. "I will take you there."

They had gone but a few paces when the sound of voices met their ears.

"That's Sixer!" Sempe burst out with obvious joy, for Sixer was one of his squad mates – and his best friend. "Up there!"

On the path ahead of them, through the trees, there came the rest of the contingent, Sixer leading the way.

"Is everyone accounted for?" Rex asked, all business.

"Yes, Captain." Sixer snapped, coming to attention.

"Everyone's alright?"

"Yes, Captain. The droids started to come down into the grotto, so Au-Hielik blew the ceiling and blocked the way," Sixer replied, sounding rather excited. "It was fantastic."

Rex raised a dubious brow, but he was glad to hear Sixer's enthusiasm.

"What about our men in the hospital?" Sixer went on.

"Everyone's alright," Rex replied. "And it looks like the Separatists are gone. How did you know it was safe to come out?"

Au-Ogusta now stepped forward from the back of the group. "As soon as the patrol I was escorting got back to the gate and it became clear they were leaving, the Doma sent me here. I knew the tunnel was blown – I was with that patrol. So, I went to the next entrance."

"Very good," Rex replied. "Everyone, go to the Seiba Tops and wait for me. I don't want anyone going off anywhere." He looked to Au-Ogusta. "Where is the Doma?"

"She was at the gate when I left. I imagine she would head to the Taber to offer thanks."

Rex nodded. "Then that's where I'm headed."

* * *

He had not stepped foot inside the Taber before. He'd only looked upon its imposing exterior, and he admittedly was somewhat reluctant to cross the threshold. From all he'd heard, this was supposed to be a holy place, and holiness did not play a role in Rex's life.

Still, if the Doma were inside, he would have to go in, as well; for he was impatient and had no intention of waiting.

The entrance at which he found himself was in the center of the façade. Two massive wooden doors at least as tall as a fully erect Octuptarra Walker, adorned with the carved images of scenes from nature, and overlaid with gold leaf, stood already open. Passing through, Rex found himself in a sort of vestibule, stretching off a hundred meters to both his left and his right, while reaching only fifteen meters across. Directly opposite him stood another much smaller set of double doors, situated in wall of sculpted stone. Here, the images were of people, all standing in one long line that stretched as far as Rex could see in the dim light. The vestibule was lit with many thousands of small different-colored glass lanterns hanging at the end of lengthy chains from the lofty ceiling. It was a very beautiful place, and an aroma of exotic scents hung in the air like some kind of magic spell.

But it was not until he had opened the door to the main sanctuary that Rex felt as if he had truly entered another world.

The place in which he now found himself could not be called a room anymore than an escape pod could be called a ship. The dimensions alone set him back on his heels, gazing around himself in wonder. He judged the area he was looked at right now to be roughly square, two hundred meters across. The highest point of the ceiling, which rose in an inverted step, had to be at least a hundred and fifty meters high. Each step must have had opening on the sides, because there was light streaming in and falling in slants to the floor below.

It was this light that revealed the most incredible and impressive aspects of the main sanctuary. The floor was inlaid with the most intricate mosaics of animals. Animal after animal after animal. Rex thought he recognized some, but there were so many—and they were so fanciful—that he could not be sure if they were depictions of actual creatures or the imaginings of a brilliant mind. Even beneath the rows of benches—hundreds upon hundreds of benches—the animals pranced, leaped, bounded, and even appeared to be dancing in their brightly tinted bits of glass.

The mosaics gave way to stunning paintings, saturated with color, where the floor met the walls. But the images were still mainly those of animals, though now human figures began to appear, clothed in flowing garments and serenity. Further up the walls, as far as Rex could see, other beings took the place of the humans – although the animals still remained. These beings were filamentary in the way the light and dark took turns marking their image, ethereal in their visages, and awe-inspiring in their stature. Rex was immediately put in mind of the Diathim of Iego – often called Angels – and he could not help but wonder if these images were representative of the Diathim.

Or perhaps real angels.

" _What?"_ He chastised himself immediately. _"Okay, you're letting the sheer immensity of this place get to you. You came here to find the Doma. Get on with it."_

But the awe was not so easily dispelled. Moving slowly into the sanctuary, he noticed more of the hanging lights and many hundreds of floor sconces, holding what had to be a hundred candles each. There were statues—many, many statues. And like the mosaics and paintings, Rex recognized some of the figures – or at least the species in the figures.

Everywhere along the outer wall of the sanctuary were alcoves and apses. In some of them, Rex could see more statues and paintings, benches and altars. And in many, there were brothers or sisters or both praying.

In the main sanctuary several hundred brothers and sisters were gathered on benches before what was clearly the high altar. Rex could hear them chanting quietly. He skirted around the outer aisle, looking for Doma Maree's face among them; but he did not see her. Coming to the juncture between the main sanctuary and one of the side apses, he saw the Doma kneeling alone before a statue of a robed and veiled figure. The statue was surrounded by flowers and candles. It was both an inviting and forbidding scene: inviting for reasons Rex could not explain; forbidding because it was simply not a part of his own belief system. The piousness of it all was the same reason why he'd found the Doma so intimidating and unapproachable to begin with.

Admittedly, he still felt much the same way. But there was something he had to do, and no amount of wonderment or discomfort would stop him. He'd managed very well head-to-head with her only a few hours earlier. There was no reason to expect this would be any different.

He sat down several rows behind her and waited in silence until she sat back on the bench. He got up and sat down beside her.

"Captain," she said, regarding him with a warm grin.

"I'm sorry if I'm disturbing your prayer," Rex apologized.

"You're not. I just finished."

Rex found himself staring at the statue, wondering what the face looked like beneath the veil. Either way, it gave him a way out of looking at the Doma directly.

After nearly a minute during which Rex said nothing, Maree spoke.

"You came to find me, Captain?"

"Yes," Rex replied. "I want to say something to you."

"I am listening."

Rex chose his words carefully. "You risked your life—and every life within these walls—for us." He paused. "I don't understand why."

After a lengthy hesitation, Maree asked, "Then have you learned nothing about the Verviens and the Austeniens in your time here?"

"Apparently, not nearly as much as I should have," Rex answered.

"As I explained to Commander Cody when you all first came here, we believe that healing and protecting you is the least we can do for all you have done to protect us," Maree told him.

"But that doesn't explain _why_ ," Rex replied. "There were thousands of lives at stake, and you chose us over those lives. I have to say, that . . . that wasn't a . . . a logical choice."

"I find it perfectly logical," Maree disagreed. "I am not in the business of deciding which lives are more valuable than others. The goal is to save as many lives as possible."

"What would you have done if they had found us?"

"We would have fought to protect you."

"Fought? With what? I thought you were peaceful orders." Rex could not hide his skepticism.

"We _are_ peaceful, Captain. But we will also defend ourselves when necessary. And those who need our help." A pause, after which she said with affected superiority. "Plus, I didn't want all our hard work to go to waste. We did not pluck you out of the desert and save your lives just to see you die at the hands of the enemy."

Rex felt the corner of his mouth lift in an involuntary grin. "You, uh, have no problem speaking your mind, do you?"

"An attribute I believe we share, although you've been as tight-lipped as a cloistered Hanabak since the day you got here," the Doma volleyed.

"I like to maintain my professional decorum," Rex returned with a certain swagger.

"I did not realize grumping about was considered professional conduct in the ranks of the Grand Army of the Republic," Maree shot back.

"Grumping about? I don't even know what that means."

"I think you do."

"Do you mean to say I'm grumpy?"

"I've told you as much . . . several times."

Rex scowled, perplexed. He'd never been called grumpy before. In fact, he considered himself the farthest thing from it. "Maybe you've mistaken my concern for my men as grumpiness."

"That is a possibility," she conceded. "In any event, is that what you came here to tell me? That you don't understand my actions?"

"Part of it," Rex replied.

He looked away in what Maree thought was a measure of distress – or at least discomfort.

"We can't stay here," he said quietly.

Maree looked somewhat taken aback by this pronouncement. "What do you mean you can't stay?"

"We're putting too many lives in danger," Rex replied. "That goes against everything we've ever been taught. We exist to win wars and preserve innocent lives, not to put them at risk."

"You didn't ask us to do this, Captain," Maree said. "We chose to take you in. When you told us the Separatists had shot you down and might be looking for you, we could have sent you away then. But that is not our way. We have made our choice. You have not forced us to help you; we do it because it is what the Creator would want us to do."

"I know you chose to help us, but—"

"What about those men who are still too injured to travel? You have at least three who are in no condition to venture back out into the desert," the Doma interrupted. "Not only that, but where would you go? The Separatist admiral said they were going to search the cities. If you go there, they may find you. You can't go wandering endlessly in the desert. Captain, surely you see that it makes no sense to leave here. The danger has passed. The Separatists have gone."

"They could come back," Rex stated.

"And if they do, we will continue to protect you." The Doma reached out and touched his arm. "Captain Rex, I must insist . . . it would be more dangerous for you to leave here than to stay."

"More dangerous for us, but you would all be safer," Rex corrected.

Maree's expression took on a hint of horror. "By the Creater, you're not thinking of handing yourselves over to the Separatists, are you?"

"No, but—"

She cut him off, and now the horror gave way to challenge. "Then let me put it this way, _Captain Rex_. If I have to lock you all away to keep you safe until the Republic comes to get you, I'll find a way to do it."

Her words surprised Rex and he was speechless.

"You need to trust that Commander Cody will get through and bring help. In the meantime, stay with us," She looked him straight in the eye. "Captain, I want you all to stay."

Rex stared back at her, and he knew she was right. If he and his men left, it was likely they would be discovered by the enemy. On top of that, he would have to leave Kix, Puzzle, and Keeper behind. Staying at the Monastica was not what he wanted to do, but he could not deny the truth: it was safer to remain.

"Alright," he finally agreed. "I still don't feel right about it, but . . . we'll stay."

Maree smiled and nodded. "You don't need to feel guilty about it, Captain. Our orders teach the importance of sacrifice, just as I'm sure you and your men are taught it." She paused and changed the subject. "Now . . . you've reinjured yourself. Let's go to the healing houses, so they can take a look at you."

"You could tell that just from touching me?"

"And watching you earlier when we were running," she quipped, squeezing his arm. "I do have the gift of observation, as well."

She got to her feet, and Rex stood up with her.

Before leaving, he looked towards the statue. "Is that your god?"

"One of his messengers," Maree replied. "A protector."

Rex nodded. "Then thank him for me."

"He already knows."

As they began walking, only then did Rex notice . . .

The floor wherever the Doma stepped, the animal mosaics beneath her feet—no, he must be imagining things—they became infused with light and . . . movement. The images were _moving._ And as the Doma passed, they returned to glass, but—but not in the same poses they had been before.

" _No, no, you're . . . the pain and the incense and this place. You're hallucinating."_

Only, he knew he wasn't.

* * *

"Half a day in the cold field should fix this up," Au-Linus decided. "There is only minimal fraying and some minor bleeding. Yes, we'll keep you overnight."

Rex grumbled something unintelligible.

"I'll send the sisters in to set up the field," Au-Linus continued. Then, with a wry expression, he added, "And no more athletics, Captain. You might want to try just . . . walking for the next few days."

"I didn't really have a choice," Rex replied.

"No, because there were no other able-bodied men around to do all the running and warning," the healer chided with a grin. "I'm not a fool, Captain. I've seen what kind of man you are. I suppose if you end up staying here for any length of time, I should expect to see you in here, what, at least once a week?"

Now it was Rex's chance to return the grin. "Or more."

Au-Linus chuckled and shook his head. "The sisters will be in in a moment." With that, he departed.

"You may stand a chance at replacing Echo as their favorite patient," the Doma proposed.

"I thought I was their _least_ favorite."

"You tend to grow on people, Captain," she replied. "Although after watching you walk over here, I have to agree with Au-Linus. You're lucky it wasn't more serious, and . . . there were others who could have done that job for you."

"Yes, and without any means of relaying that information back to me," Rex countered. "I needed to know what was going on. I'm their captain."

"And as their captain . . . " Maree reached into the folds of her frock and withdrew a small, metallic device. She handed it to him.

"What is this?"

"General Vrehnka gave it to me. It's a communicator. He told me to use if to contact him if any clones should appear." She watched him turn it over several times; and when she held out her hand, he gave it back to her.

She dropped it onto the floor and, in a very unlady-like manner, stomped it beneath her sandaled heel, crushing it into pieces.

Rex looked at the broken communicator then up at the Doma. "I was going to try and recalibrate that to contact the fleet."

Maree stared blankly at him, speechless. For Rex's part, it might just be the most satisfaction he'd felt since coming here.

"I—I'm sorry, Captain, I didn't—"

"I'm kidding."

"What?"

"All of the Separatist communications hardware has special fail-safes, so that if they're tampered with, they send an alert to the base station. There's no way for us to reconfigure those devices." He smiled impishly. "I was only joking."

Maree raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think you knew how to joke, Captain. I'm glad to see I was wrong." A pause. "Although people who trick others . . . always need to be watching their backs."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you are fortunate that I am a holy woman."

Holy or not, there was no mistaking the mischievous challenge in her voice.

"Uh, don't forget . . . I'm still injured," Rex begged off.

"No, I won't forget," the Doma smiled. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Captain . . . I have many other minds to put at ease after our unexpected visitors today." She headed for the door, stopping suddenly and turning back to face him once more. "Oh, and since it looks like you might, in fact, be here a bit longer, I am formally extending an invitation to you and your men to join us in celebrating the Me'ente Loge festival."

"You've mentioned that a few times," Rex replied. "Before I accept your invitation, tell me what it is."

Maree looked pleased that he would inquire. "Me'Ente Loge is the Creator's greatest messenger. It was his statue that I was praying before in the Taber. I was thanking him for delivering us safely from the Separatists. On the 478th day of every year, we celebrate his great victory over evil."

Rex tilted his head to one side. "Evil still exists."

"Yes," the Doma agreed. "And he continues to defeat it, just as we must continue to defeat it."

"Then what great victory was it that didn't . . . vanquish the enemy?" Rex challenged.

Maree smiled at him. "Do you want to spend your convalescence receiving a lesson on our theology?"

"Maybe not right now, but I _am_ curious about what you believe—and why you believe it," Rex replied.

"I am always thrilled to speak of the Creator. Any time you wish, Captain, just say the word."

"About this festival . . . is it suitable for me and my brothers?"

"Suitable?"

"As . . . non-believers, is it something we can . . . I mean, what does it involve?"

"Come and see. I would not invite you if I did not feel it was something in which you and your men could partake," Maree replied.

"You're not going to try and convert us, are you?" Rex asked with a cheeky glint in his eye.

Maree narrowed her eyes. "With everything I have."

"Really?" Rex wasn't sure whether she was joking or not.

"You have two days to get better, Captain," the Doma said. "After that, I'll expect to see you at the festivities."

After she had left, Rex smiled to himself.

" _I'll expect to see you at the festivities."_

There was something intriguing about the prospect.

Even more, it occurred to him that he had just had a fairly pleasant exchange with the woman. And she had appeared to enjoy trading jibes with him. Yes, that seemed to be the lay of it.

Perhaps she wasn't so intimidating, after all.

Two days suddenly seemed like a very long time.

 _ **Okay, yes, they're warming up to each other a bit.**_

 _ **And as for the animal mosaics, I'm not sure why I wrote them coming to life. That was not part of my original story, but I love animals so much, and I wanted the imagery.**_


	22. Chapter 22

_**Dear Readers, once again many thanks to my reviewers: LLTC, 782, CRB35, Queen Nagaina, Christina TM, and Devil-O-Angel. So, in this chapter, I am directly ripping off devotions to Michael the Archangel (because he's my patron saint and patron saint of the military; so I have a strong devotion to him). And I am combining that with the ancient Egyptian ritual in which a statue of Horace was brought down the river and honored and feted and food placed before him. So, Catholicism meets Egyptian god worship! There is also some ethical discussion about the creation of a clone army and it individual members. I admit, I particularly enjoy that discussion, because I think it raises questions that we of the human race may be dealing with sooner than later. At any rate, sort of a quiet chapter for the weekend.**_

Chapter 22 Me'Ente Loge

" _O glorious prince St. Michael, chief and commander of the heavenly hosts, guardian of souls, vanquisher of rebel spirits, servant in the house of the Divine King and our admirable conductor, you who shine with excellence and superhuman virtue deliver us from all evil, who turn to you with confidence and enable us by your gracious protection to serve God more and more faithfully every day."_

 _Prayer to Saint Michael, Chaplet of Saint Michael the Archangel_

* * *

"This place sure got crowded," Zinger noted as he, Bounce and Tip walked from the dining hall back to the Seiba Tops after the midday meal. "I don't know where they managed to fit all these people."

"The whole area just inside the main gate is wall-to-wall tents," Tip replied.

"Au-Ogusta said the festival starts tonight at sundown," Zinger stated. He smiled. "You know, I'm kind of looking forward to it, seeing what it's all about. They've been putting up a lot of decorations, and there _is_ a kind of electricity in the air."

"Yeah, everyone's excited and in a good mood," Bounce agreed. "And, uh, not to mention, there's been a lot of good-looking women coming through those gates."

"I noticed," Zinger nodded.

"The captain says we're invited to the opening ceremony," Tip put forth. "You guys going?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Bounce answered with spirit. "It's kind of nice to be doing something other than fighting or waiting for the next battle."

They walked on a bit further, then Tip spoke up again. "I wonder how the commander and his team are doing. Do you think they've reached the city yet?"

"Well, he told Captain Rex to give it at least two to see if the fleet arrives to pick us up," Zinger replied. "It's only been five days. It was supposed to take them seven days to reach the city."

The silence that followed was filled with meaning. At last, Zinger asked, "You worried about them?"

Tip gave a conceding nod. "I know the commander is good and can probably handle anything they might run into, but it's fekking nerve-wracking being out of contact."

"I know what you mean," Zinger commiserated. "We don't know if they're safe or if anything's happened to them. With the Separatists planet-side, they could run into real trouble."

* * *

"What you see ahead . . . those are the Swaig Flats," Fels Au-Trava announced. He had halted his Shempa at the top of a precipitous dune, the last one before the wastes of the flat stretched out before them for many kilometers.

The flats were ugly blemishes upon an otherwise pristine desert landscape. They were darkened splotches that appeared almost to have a wetness to them, like a boil or a carbuncle on the flaky surface. They gave off an unpleasant odor that was already wafting up the dune and making the clones wish they had their helmets.

"There are sinking holes," Au-Trava continued with his explanation. "Some have been in the same place for many years. Others come and go. We must be very careful, for if you fall in, it is very hard to get you out. The Shempa are good at sensing them and can usually avoid them. The flies are another matter altogether. We must pray for the good fortune not to encounter them. The pilgrims we passed gave us good information about their crossing, so I hope we shall do well."

"What about the serpico creatures Au-Ogusta mentioned?" Cody asked.

"They tend to be shy unless disturbed," Au-Trava replied.

"And if they _are_ disturbed?" Three Point queried.

Au-Trava regarded him obliquely. "Then we will have a problem." He paused. "It will take us two days to cross, and then we will be very close to Heembab."

That was good enough for Cody. "Then let's get a move on."

* * *

The road from the main entrance led through the center archway of the healing houses and bisected the botanical garden on its way to the Taber. And at this moment, just before sunset, it was lined on either side with thousands of pilgrims. There was a great sense of jubilation and anticipation in the crowd as the clones passed through under the guidance of Au-Ogusta, who had been assigned to escort them through the festivities.

He had taken them down to the main gate for no other reason than to see the size of the crowd and feel the excitement. Now, they were working their way back towards the Taber. Just as they were entering the open end of the healing houses courtyard, they heard a massive, thrilling cheer rolling up from the gate behind them. Stopping they turned, but it was too far to see what was happening.

"Me'ente Loge has entered," Au-Ogusta said.

"What—what? He's _really_ here?" March asked, stunned.

"No, no. It is only a representation of him," the brother answered. "But, Creator willing, he will come at the Finirest."

"What's that?"

"The pinnacle of the festival. It happens two nights from now."

"But I thought you said the festival is four days long," Sempe mentioned.

"It is. The two days after Finirest, we celebrate the installment."

"The installment of what?" This, too, was from Sempe.

"Ah, there is much to see and explain! All will become clear over the next four days. Come, my brothers—" It was heartwarming to all the clones that Au-Ogusta had taken to calling them his own brothers, "—we will get to the Taber and wait there. You will have a good view of the procession."

* * *

Rex stood just outside the Taber with Au-Sinti, whom the Doma had tasked with escorting him. Being that Au-Linus had been adamant that his willful patient not be permitted to walk the length of the procession from the main gate, the Doma had taken it into her own hands to make sure that Rex was well taken care of. He seemed cordial with Au-Sinti, and the healer was agreeable with everyone; so it was an easy match.

Not that Rex was particularly interested in spectating what he imagined would be very much like a parade, but he was curious to see what sort of religious observance it was that could draw so many people out through a hostile landscape for four days of celebration.

"So, who exactly is Me'ente Loge?" he asked Au-Sinti. "The Doma started telling me about him, but we didn't have time to get very far."

"He is one of the Creator's greatest messengers," the brother replied. "The prince of the spiritual armies."

Well, that explanation did little to paint a clear picture in Rex's mind. "She said he defeated evil."

"He did."

"But evil still exists," Rex pointed out, just as he had done with the Doma two days earlier. "How can he have defeated it if it still exists?"

"I wonder that you, as a soldier, should ask that question," Au-Sinti replied.

"Why? I think it's a pretty good question," Rex said, a bit cock-sure.

"You say evil still exists. Do you consider the Separatists evil?" Au-Sinti asked.

"They're the enemy, and in this case . . . yes, they're evil. Their intentions are evil. Their actions are evil," Rex replied without a hint of doubt.

"And have you ever defeated them in a battle?"

Now, Rex understood, and he could scarcely believe his own short-sightedness. "Yes."

"But you continue to fight them."

"Yes." Rex nodded. "The battle versus the war. I see now." He paused. "So, what was his great victory over evil? What battle was that?"

"The legions of the Uhl-hulle—hell, if you will—rose up over eight hundred years ago and infested the minds of many people," Au-Sinti replied. "Me'ente Loge led the fight to send them back. He could have destroyed them, but that was not the Creator's desire."

Rex found it fascinating and fantastical, as unbelievable as he would have found the Force to be, had he not seen the latter in action. "Why not? Why wouldn't your god want evil to be destroyed?"

"He does want it destroyed . . . but not by the messengers," Au-Sinti explained. "He wants his children to destroy it."

"Well, that seems to be a losing proposition," Rex said skeptically. "I'm not sure who you consider _his children_ , but it seems to be that most civilizations have a lot of evil in them. Leaving it to . . . uh, nonspiritual creatures to put an end to evil . . . there's not much hope of that, is there?"

"Isn't that what you are trying to do, Captain?"

Rex could not stop the smile from forming on his lips. "Well, I guess . . . yes."

"And if it's as hopeless as you say, why do you continue to fight?"

Here, Rex could be frank without needing to give much explanation for his answer. "As clones, we don't have any choice. We're property of the Republic. We exist to fight." He considered for a moment. "There are those who have . . . gone to the enemy or . . . deserted their post . . . " His thoughts went to Saleucami and the clone deserter he had met there, a man who went by the name of Cut Lawquane. "But I could never do that."

"If you had the choice, would you continue to fight?"

"Yes." Rex had no reservations about that.

"Why?"

" _Because I'm part of the most pivotal moment in the history of the Republic. If we fail, then our children and their children will be forced to live under an evil I can't well imagine."_

Yes, that was what he'd said back on Saleucami. That was the justification he'd given to Lawquane, and he still meant it with every fiber of his being and every breath he drew.

He repeated it now to Au-Sinti, and this time he was not challenged at his reference to _our children._ He would never forget Lawquane's attempt to corner him during the argument by using the prohibition against procreation that the clones were expected to live under. It still rankled him and brought a certain bitterness into his throat. His irritation was not the injunction itself, for he had accepted that from the moment in his accelerated development when he'd realized that he was a fully functional male with all the associated desires and yearnings; rather the thing that continued to gall him was Lawquane's attempt to use that argument as a reason against why Rex should find any meaning in serving the Republic.

Au-Sinti offered a response that was far removed from that given by Lawquane.

"Evil is only defeated with great effort and at great cost," the brother said. "While the establishment of the clone army is unjustifiable before the Creator, the lives that were brought forth as the result of that act are worthy and do not bear the guilt of those who created them."

"I don't think it was a mistake to create the clone army," Rex differed. "It was necessary in order to defeat the Separatist threat."

"You misunderstand me, Captain," Au-Sinti stated. "The creation of an army is not the mistake. The creation of an entire population of beings whose sole purpose it is fill the ranks of that army and die so that the citizenry may be spared the danger of combat . . . that is more than a mistake. That, itself, is evil."

"That's something you'd have to take up with the Jedi Council," Rex backed off. "It was a Jedi who commissioned us to be created."

"Even Jedi make mistakes," the brother replied, then he added with a warm smile. "None of which reflects on you or your fellow clones. As I said, your existence is now a part of being; and as such, your value is innate. Perhaps doubly so, since you and your men so willingly fulfill the lot that has been given you. I am glad you are soldiers, Captain; and I am glad you are on our side."

The sound of cheerful shouts and distant singing met their ears in a faint echo of the procession heading their way.

"They will be here soon," Au-Sinti announced.

 _Soon_ was about twenty minutes.

Rex watched as what first appeared as a small wavering line of moving pieces drew slowly nearer. At length, he could make out individuals in the crowd and a giant statue—almost identical to the one he'd seen in the Taber, but much larger and instead of stone, this one was carved from a single piece of wood—being pulled on a massive cart, not by Shempa or Losla, but by people.

"The relic statue of Me'ente Loge," Au-Sinti said. "It is said the first Doma fashioned it from the seed of a Dahlma tree. The seed fell when the messenger brushed the tree's fronds with his wings."

"That must have been a pretty big seed if that was carved from it," Rex quipped.

Au-Sinti smiled. "Many of our traditions grow from stories that are . . . allegorical in nature."

"So what's the allegory here?"

"The Dahlma seed, in reality, is tiny. And it grows into an unimpressive tree that is easily overlooked. They are the trees just inside the main gate. Skinny, sparse things. Yet, they can survive the barrenness of the desert better than any other tree. They hold water and produce the sweetest fruit high up top where it is difficult to reach. But they are the main natural source of sustenance for the desert dwellers, human and animal," Au-Sinti explained. "So, the point to be taken away from the story is that even though something is small or plain or simple, it has the capacity to bring life, healing, comfort . . . a respite in the desert." He paused. "Such things form the best defense against the spread of evil. And so Me'ente Loge is often depicted with a Dahlma frond in his hand and seeds scattered about his feet."

Rex had to admit that he was intrigued. It was a fine story, and one to which he felt strangely kindred.

The crowd was almost level with them now, and Rex could see plainly the carved image just as Au-Sinti had described it: frond in hand, seeds scattered—not only as part of the carving, but also real seed all over the cart bed. The face was once again veiled in the carving, just as it had been with the statue inside the Taber.

"Why is his face covered?" Rex inquired.

"Tradition has it that he will only reveal his face when the final battle has been won."

"And when is that supposed to take place?"

"For each man, it occurs at his death. If the man is victorious in his struggle against evil, he will see Me'Ente Loge's face and be led by him to the Creator. If he has failed in his struggle, the messenger continues to hide his face, and . . . eternal perdition."

Rex nodded. "You have interesting traditions."

"Indeed," Au-Sinti grinned. "Here come your men."

Rex turned to see his brothers near the front of the crowd but on the near side of the road. Au-Ogusta was leading them.

As they came to join their captain, Rex suddenly felt a swell of pride and affection for them, emotions that were always pulsing beneath the surface but which he usually kept at arm's length. The clones were clearly enjoying themselves, smiling, chatting, fitting in. They were exceptional representatives of the Republic, and Rex seeing such good manners and proper comportment, Rex felt justified for being as tough a task-master as he was—even though he often berated himself with the notion that he was turning into a cream-puff when it came to disciplining the occasional errant behavior.

His men were hardy, resilient, tenacious.

He'd always known this, but the story of the Dahlma seeds brought this knowledge into greater clarity.

These were the best soldiers any commander could ask for. Even the 212th soldiers—not his, but Cody's—could not be excluded from his sphere. Especially with the absence of their commander, they became even more a part of Rex's extended _family_.

He would do anything for them.

"Something else, isn't it, Captain?" Sixer asked.

"Very interesting," Rex replied.

"Are we going inside?" This from Echo, who emerged from the midst of his brothers holding a handful of Dahlma fronds.

Rex wasn't even surprised. "Where did you get those?"

"Someone in the crowd gave them to me," Echo replied. "They're all waving them around, so I just . . . waved them around, too. Are we going inside, Captain?"

Au-Sinti answered, "Yes. Follow me." He and Au-Ogusta led the way inside, ahead of the crowd, and directly to a spot near the high altar that had been reserved for them but that was not too conspicuous.

"I feel like a VIP," Echo whispered to Fives, who chuckled in return.

"I guess they wanted to make sure we got a good view."

Shortly thereafter, the cart bearing the statue entered the Taber. It continued up to the high altar and then was posted behind it, facing back towards the sanctuary benches. The singing throng followed, but as soon as each individual crossed the threshold into the sanctuary, they fell silent. They continued up to the high alter, set down their fronds or bags of seed or whatever other gift they had brought—berries, metals, jewels, straw dolls, the variety was immense—and then proceeded to find a place on the benches.

Echo, seeing this, immediately sought out his captain's attention.

"Captain?"

"No."

"But Sir—"

"For you to go up there would be a mockery of what they believe," Rex said firmly. "They're doing what they're doing because they believe what this religion teaches. It's not just an act."

"I realize that, Sir, but I would be doing it as a show of respect for their beliefs," Echo persisted. "From what I've read in their sacred texts, it's perfectly acceptable for—"

"What you've read—you've been reading their sacred texts?" Where Rex had not been surprised to see Echo, fronds-in-hand; he was taken aback by this.

"It's fascinating, Captain," Echo said enthusiastically. "This religion bears a striking similarity to the Hounouk-ksp on the third moon of—"

"I believe you," Rex cut him off. "I just—I don't know how you find the time to do all this reading and research."

"The ni-Doma provided a lot of information," Echo replied. "They provided me with the texts."

A low rumbling began to fill the hall, like a kettle drum roll, increasing in volume and intensity, and culminating with several loud hits, like the sound of thunder.

Then all was silent.

Outside the Taber, the sun dipped below the horizon. Inside, the candles were doused, and the entire place was in darkness.

Then a single woman's voice echoed through the sanctuary, chanting in an unfamiliar tongue.

The acoustics in the Taber were such that the voice had a clear, precise quality to it. The melody, a very few notes in a limited range, was mesmerizing, almost transcendent.

On the raised daiz behind the altar and before the statue of Me'ente Loge, lights began to flicker and come to life as candles were brought forth from somewhere beyond the clones' view. In the midst of the procession of candles, the singer walked with floating, measured steps, timed to the rhythm of her chant.

Fives leaned over and whispered in Echo's ear. "Hey, that's, uh, that's the sister who loved all your stories."

"Anaide is her name," Echo replied. "I didn't know she had a voice like that. I thought she was just a nurse."

"Look, behind her. That's the Doma."

Doma Maree followed Sister Anaide to the altar, and here she stopped; but Anaide went on to a sort of pulpit built into one of the great supporting columns.

Anaide continued to chant as the Doma, with a small entourage of brothers—including Au-Mikiel—incensed the altar and the statue.

For Rex, the rest of the ceremony was a blur.

The heady fragrance of the incense, the darkness, the close air of more than 10,000 people packed into one space, the dulcet lilting of the chant . . .

The Doma.

Whatever aspects of her person had struck him before as perhaps being holy, seeing her now in this setting was humbling, to say the least. She presided over the goings-on, but most of the actual ceremonial procedures were carried out by the brothers: Au-Mikiel, in particular. The Doma stood behind and above the altar, her raiment—still green, but a kind of billowing material that had the illusion of continual movement. Her hair was once again in the complicated pile atop her head, and Rex realized he decidedly preferred the messy flop of two days ago. If her were to judge her appearance now, he would have said she looked regal. She looked like she should be in charge. She looked like the head of a religious order.

Rex felt something stir deep inside him.

And it wasn't a call to religion.

 _ **Last note: So, my take on Cut Lawquane. Okay, I may be the ONLY clone fan who didn't like him. I know that, as a clone, he had no choice but to enter the war, so that sort of tempers his desertion. But he left fighting men behind, brothers, and it just didn't sit right with me. No offense to anyone who's a fan of his.**_


	23. Chapter 23

_**Dear Reader, I put my notes at the bottom, because I don't want to give away anything in the chapter! Peace,CS**_

Chapter 23 Finirest

" _Lights o' down in moun'tins n'er shown  
but winds what 'long the Finirest blown.  
Then's beacons haloed heads we seen  
And makes what's saints does in between."_

 _Finirest Mountain  
_ Jacob Senegal

Rex was not a man who made mistakes.

Or more accurately, he was a man who _rarely_ made mistakes; and when he did, he made damned sure he never made the same mistake twice.

True, he might be impetuous, a bit brash, and oftentimes, downright cocky. But he could afford to be, because his instincts were uncanny, and his perception of any given situation was usually as close to the reality as a man could come without actually being privy to every detail.

It helped to have a Jedi General who was there to back him up on the few occurrences when he'd misinterpreted a scenario and decided wrong; but each time General Skywalker had come to his assistance, he'd taken that as a strong motivator to work on any failings. The one thing Rex wanted more than anything else was to know that his commanding general trusted him enough that he would feel comfortable placing his own life in Rex's hands.

That sort of pressure was not for every clone trooper, but Rex thrived on it. The harder the job, the greater the success. The tougher the battle, the sweeter the victory. The more perilous the dangerous, the deeper the bond between those who undertook it.

But almost all of Rex's decisions up to this point had revolved around war and its waging. Even decisions about which troops to bring into the 501st had war and victory as their basis. What other factors should he take into consideration? His life was fighting, and he was basting good at it. He let nothing interfere, and he made sure his men let nothing interfere with their own fighting spirit. Rex knew how to stay focused and on task. And when the task was done, he promptly went off in search of a new one. If he wasn't fighting, he was competing on the z-grav court or wrestling or scraping up an impromptu hand-to-hand combat training session.

He was not a restive soul. And he did not want to a restive soul. He liked the feeling of energy that pulsed through his body whenever he was engaged in something physical, something daring, something that required skill and strength.

He smiled ruefully at the memory of Cody backing him into a corner, finger in the center of his chest, verbally blasting him to pieces over what the then-lieutenant junior grade had called "a complete lack of sense". He'd followed it up by saying, "Only an ignorant zealot would pursue confrontation the way you do." The commander had then proceeded to pummel him in an out-and-out brawl, but Rex—in hindsight—knew he'd been asking for it. He'd gotten what he'd deserved . . . and then some.

By the Force, what would Cody think if he knew what was going through his mind now?

The strange churning he'd felt last night had been powerful and alarming enough that it had sent him straight back to his quarters at the conclusion of the ritual. And he hadn't left since, except to go see Kix and pick up something to eat on the way back. He'd spent the entire day in his room, pouring over the data from the consoles and trying to push aside feelings whose acquaintance he was not keen to make.

The Doma was an attractive woman – at least, he thought so now. She was in charge and knew it; but she was confident enough not to lord it over those in her care. For his own part, Rex liked strong, powerful women – which accounted for why he had a great admiration for Senator Amidala, Jedi Masters Luminara Anduli, Shaak Ti, and Aayla Secura. And he would certainly be remiss if he did not include Commander Tano on that list, Padawan learner though she was. When he thought of Ahsoka, he did not consider her a woman. She was a teenager: headstrong, willful, not in the habit of thinking things through, and a bit forgetful of her place from time to time. But when she stepped out in front of the troops, light saber in hand, ready to deflect and defend their advance, Rex cared not a whit about her age or demeanor. Like her master, she could fight; and Rex respected that.

These Jedi women . . . they had all taken the same oath as the men. They had sworn off attachment, and that included sexual attachment – if there was such a thing. Rex preferred not to ponder such issues.

But he was pondering them now.

For he knew what he'd been feeling last night. Like every other clone, he was in no way deficient in virile longings. In order to preserve the fighting spirit, the Kaminoans had been careful not to tamper with the template's propensity towards all things masculine. To the degree that the clones' innate sense of obedience had been enhanced, that was the degree to which an army of over 3 million men could remain intact and under control.

The rules against fraternization with the local female populations were treated no differently than the prohibitions against drunkenness, inappropriate public behavior, gambling, and the procurement of drugs of any kind, unless they were medically prescribed by a GAR physician. Most clones were obedient – whether it was due to their programming or a fear of punishment was not so clear. Of course, there were those who strayed too far. These were the trouble-makers, and Rex had seen the higher echelons deal with them in ways that proved just how expendable the clones were . . .

That was the reason he was so careful in choosing the men to join the 501st. He wanted no troublemakers. With the kind of missions General Skywalker took on, Rex could not afford to have smoke-makers in the ranks.

"And I can't afford to be one, either," he said aloud, tossing the data pad aside on the bed, leaning back, and resting his eyes. He considered that he had, quite unintentionally and unwillingly, developed an attraction for a woman who was the head of a religious order – a celibate religious order, at that! And on a planet so far out of the mainstream, he hadn't even recognized its name when he was told that was where they'd be crash-landing.

It gave him some comfort to think that he and his men would likely be departing in the next few days; then the temptation would be over. The self-recrimination of his own weakness would fritter off into that part of his memory where recollections faded faster than the sunset on Minar Three.

He also considered it fortunate that the Doma was extremely unlikely to stray from her path, and just as unlikely to seek out the company of someone who had been so disagreeable since arriving.

And then a knock came at the door.

Rex knew it was her before he even opened it. Perhaps this was one of the few times his judgment had been in error; perhaps the Doma didn't find him as repulsive as his behavior had warranted. Why else would she come calling on a _grou_ ch, as she had so brazenly put it?

Rex got to his feet and rummaged around for something to wear. He'd been sitting propped up in the bed with only the sheet pulled up to his waist. Even though the rooms were cooled, there was nothing to beat a cold shower after spending a few hours out in the heat as he had that morning going to see Kix. Getting dressed had seemed unnecessary after that, as he had intended to stay in his room all day.

He reached for the long tunic – still damp from the morning's sweat—and pulled it on, bypassing the trousers and certainly the length of cloth that was supposed to function as an undergarment. Rex had not mastered how the brothers wound it about their loins. He was too impatient to fool with it and too embarrassed to ask for something a little more modern.

His modesty covered and preserved, he stopped in front of the door, somewhat surprised to find his heart racing.

But when he opened the door, he found Nova Merika there.

Not the Doma.

And although he was not sure how to decipher the way he felt at that moment, he greeted her equably. "Nova Merika."

The Nova gave a shallow bow. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

"No, you're not."

"The Doma would like to know if you will be coming to the Finirest Ceremony tonight. She will reserve a place for those of you who wish to come and send Au-Ogusta to escort you," Merika stated.

Rex thought about it for only a moment. "I, myself, won't be attending. But any of my men who want to go, that's fine with me."

Merika nodded, then asked tepidly, "You are not ill, are you, Captain?"

"No, I'm not ill," Rex replied. "Tell the Doma I appreciate the invitation, but I must decline."

"I will tell her," the Nova said. "She will be sad that you are going to miss the pinnacle of the celebration." A pause. "Fels Au-Ogusta will call for your men later this evening."

"Thank you, Nova." Rex was gracious. He watched her walk away a few steps before closing the door. He had planned to feel satisfaction upon offering his declination; but instead, he felt dull. He had nothing to do now but sit in the room and look at the data pads.

At that moment, he would have given anything to get back to the war.

He stood less chance of making mistakes on the battlefield than he did in this very foreign arena.

* * *

"He said he would not be coming, though his men may come," Nova Merika reported.

"Very good," Maree replied. "Be sure to send Au-Ogusta round to get them before sunset."

"Yes, Doma." The Nova made to depart, but the Doma stopped her.

"Merika, did the captain say why he would not be coming?"

"No, Doma," came the reply. "I asked if he was unwell. He said he was fine, and I did not pursue any further."

"Confounding man," Maree muttered. "I can't make him out at all."

Merika regarded her with amusement. "What call is there to understand him?"

"My own curiosity," the Doma answered. "He is very serious, yet there is something more that makes his men so devoted to him. I have seen glimpses of it, but its fullness eludes me."

"I hope you will not let your curiosity distract you at tonight's ceremony," Merika grinned. "Me'Ente Loge would not want to be second in your thoughts."

Maree turned a chiding glance towards her assistant. " _That_ would never happen." A pause. "But speaking of tonight . . . there is something I need to check on first. Wait for me here. I won't be long."

"But Doma, it's almost time to start the preparation," Merika protested.

"I have been doing this for a long time now, Merika," Maree replied. "I know precisely how much preparation I need. Just have everything ready for when I get back."

"Where are you going?"

"To the healing houses."

* * *

"It's been a week. Doma Maree said he was healing. They've all said he was healing. He should have woken up by now." This was Jesse's lament, and it was one shared by Hardcase and Pitch, although the latter two were not as vocal; as if speaking their discouragement might somehow set the course.

The captain had come by that morning, but his visit had been hardly uplifting. He, too, had expressed his concern over the fact that Kix seemed no closer to regaining consciousness, even though they were no longer inducing coma.

The cold field remained fully engaged—a side effect being the complete re-molecularization, hence disappearance—of the tattoo Kix had worn so proudly over his left ear—but if it were healing the rest of him, it was agonizingly slow. Then again, it was scant cause for complaint; for a bacta tank would have been too little, too late, and Kix would have died many days ago. At least, he still stood a fighting chance; that was what Au-Josat and Au-Cepha had continued to assert from day one. That was what the Doma had said yesterday.

"They're doing all they can," Pitch offered. "I mean, on top of the medical care, they've got people praying for him—"

"Their prayers aren't working," Jesse interrupted, shaking his head. " _Your_ prayers aren't working."

Pitch inclined his head. "Well, I didn't expect mine to work. I'm not exactly a holy guy. But the brothers and sisters . . . I think their god must listen to them."

"Just—stop," Jesse groaned, a bit of anger seeping into his voice where he hadn't intended it to. "Stop with the praying and the magic . . . I don't want to hear it anymore."

Pitch was silent. Beside him, Hardcase rested his hand on his shoulder.

Jesse stood up and walked to the window. Looking outside, he saw thousands of people milling about in the courtyard, coming and going, laughing, smiling, living in anticipation of joy. And he felt tired. And angry. And cheated.

He knew it was odd that he should feel that way. After all, how many times had he and his squad mates bragged about never feeling tired, never letting anger come between them, and the many times they had cheated death? They had been the ones to laugh, smile, and live as if they occupied the highest mountain peaks.

Who would take that away from them?

It seemed only death could conquer the spirit they shared.

But was it death that was now staring them down? What was it that stood between the three of them and Kix? Was that encroaching death?

Or was it something as simple as impatience? Or was guilt rearing its head again from so long ago?

Still looking out the window, Jesse spoke again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

As usual, it was Hardcase, in his irrepressible way, who restored peace to the room. "We all feel like crap, Jesse. We're all worried. We understand. Don't sweat it."

Jesse crossed his arms and stared out the beveled glass. "I'd give anything to have Top here right now." A pause. "We should all be together."

A knock came, and the clones turned to see the Doma standing in the doorway.

"Doma, come in."

"I am sorry I didn't come this morning," she apologized. "There is much to do in preparation for the Finirest." She came over to the bed and, as she did on every visit, she reached her hand into the cold field and placed it on Kix's forehead. And, as on every visit, when she withdrew her hand, she was as placid as always. "His injuries are very nearly healed."

"Then why doesn't he wake up?" Jesse asked, his voice almost imploring.

"He will wake up . . . in time," Maree replied. "I sped his healing already, but that will not replenish the energy he has lost. Recovering from such damage takes a toll on the body, and he needs to regain his strength. That takes time."

"Doma . . . are you still sure he's going to be alright?" Pitch asked.

"Barring any unforeseen catastrophe, yes," she smiled, then eyeing Jesse, in particular, she added, "I do not believe you are a man who loses hope. Don't lose it now."

With that, she left the room and headed back to her residence beside the Taber. She had to begin preparations before Merika worked herself into a frenzy.

And she had to bolster her own courage. She would make a special request tonight.

* * *

It was dark when Rex left his room at the Seiba Tops to go make his evening check on Kix. He'd been very good about visiting in the morning and in the evening, trusting to Kix's squadmates to let him know if anything happened in between.

Upon stepping out, the first thing he noticed was the complete absence of any people on the paths. He passed the Taber, but it was dark and silent. The botanical garden was empty as well. It was as if every living person had disappeared from the place.

There was something comforting and peaceful about the emptiness and the warm desert breeze skipping around him. He felt as if he owned the universe at that moment.

Only when he entered the healing houses did he find a scant few brothers and sisters still on duty.

He stopped one in the hallway.

"Where is everyone?"

The sister replied, "At the Finirest. Did you not go with the rest of the soldiers?"

"No, I, uh, I came here to visit one of my men," Rex replied.

"Ah, you can visit and still make it to the Finirest, if you so please," the sister pointed out.

Rex gave an unreadable head motion in response and headed up to Kix's room.

What he saw when he walked in was enough to make him decide it was time to pull rank.

Here were three men who looked like they hadn't slept, showered, had a decent meal, or seen sunlight in days. Three of his finest officers looking worse now than after battle.

But if he were going to force them to leave, maybe he could finesse it enough not to have to use his position as captain to coerce them into taking a break.

"Any change since this morning?" he asked, walking over and regarding Kix through the cold field.

"They say he's still mostly healed, Sir," Jesse replied. "He needs to regain his strength." He sounded absolutely unconvinced. "He still hasn't been awake."

Rex moved to lean back against the wall next to where Pitch was sitting.

"Big shindig going on tonight," the demolitions expert stated. "You're not going, Captain?"

"Neh," Rex said in the rarely used drawl that dotted his speech from time to time. He only drew out words when he wasn't keen on expanding his explanation. His men had come to recognize that when they heard the drawl, it was best not to ask any follow-up questions.

Of course, Hardcase was never one to use his better judgment. "Why not?"

Rex shot him a _command_ glare.

Hardcase grinned. "Sorry, Sir."

"You all can go to it if you want," Rex replied. "I'll sit with Kix." He scratched the back of his head. "Course, I don't even know where it is. I passed the Taber, and it was dark."

"I think I'd rather stay here," Jesse stated.

"I think a breath of fresh air would do you all good," Rex said. "And a shower and change of clothes."

"Captain, please understand—" Jesse began, but he stopped speaking abruptly. "What's that sound?"

They all fell silent.

"Do you hear that?" Jesse asked.

"It sounds like singing," Pitch replied.

"I've never heard singing like that," Hardcase said. "That sounds like . . . a million voices."

Rex moved away from the wall and went to the window. Pushing it open, the sound flooded into the room. Rex leaned over the sill. "What the hell . . . "

His three brothers joined him at the window.

"Fek and all," Hardcase breathed. "What's going on? What are those?"

Overhead, the sky was filled with filamentary streaks of cloudy light, like meteors dashing across the heavens. They were all headed north, passing out of view beyond the northern wall of the healing houses.

The singing was in a language none of the clones recognized. It sounded ethereal and earthy at the same time, as if heavenly choirs had joined with nature and humanity.

Jesse, always on the alert, asked, "Do you think it's an attack? Did the Separatists return?"

Pitch answered. "No. It's not an attack. This is what Agnesta told me about. Those are spirits."

Rex looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "What?"

"That's what she said, Captain," he replied. "Spirits coming for something called . . . the installation or something like that."

Rex hated unanswered questions. He hated mysteries. "I'm going to find out what this is all about."

"I'll go with you, Captain," Pitch volunteered.

"Me, too," Hardcase added. "Someone needs to keep an eye on Pitch."

"Jesse?"

"I'll stay here, Captain," the lieutenant said with a nod.

The three clones left by way of the botanical garden, and here they actually stopped in wonder, their eyes turned upwards as the darkness grew thick with the milky splotches of speeding light.

Rex followed their course to the uppermost level of the Taber where they disappeared through the pinnacle openings, as light poured from the very same openings, indicating that something was surely going on inside.

The Taber was the source of the singing, which had lowered to a gentle, lilting melodic strain that was no less enticing. The closer the clones came, the more compelled they felt to enter inside. Whatever was drawing the lights in the sky was drawing them as well.

They came to the south vestibule and went inside. Not a soul was to be seen, and the great inner doors were closed.

"Should we go in, Captain?" Hardcase asked.

But it was Pitch, barely able to contain himself, who answered excitedly. "Yes!" He crossed the vestibule in three strides and pulled open the door.

Inside, the sanctuary was wall-to-wall with people: brothers, sisters, pilgrims, residence of the Wayward Houses, all standing shoulder to shoulder, at least 15,000 people . . . maybe more.

They were all singing.

All of them.

From the oldest to the youngest.

There were candles burning in the floor and wall sconces. The statue of Me'Ente Loge was strewn with flowers. Heavenly fragrance wafted from the incensors.

And yet, none of this could draw Rex's attention from what he saw up above him.

The glowing clouds—he was still not going to call them souls—that had entered through the dome slats swirled round about the ceiling in a great whirlpool of energy. Every now and then, if he were looking at the right time in the right place, he thought he could make out a figure or a face – animal faces, faces of species he had never seen. And along the walls, there were more stationary figures, rotating in and out of shaped forms. These had the appearance of observers.

" _By the Force, was Pitch right? Can these possibly be souls?"_

He felt a gentle tug on his sleeve and looked to see Au-Cepha standing beside him. Rex hadn't realized it, but he'd been pushing his way slowly forward as he'd been looking up at the ceiling. Au-Cepha drew the captain to stand beside him with a nod and a smile. He then resumed singing.

Up on the pulpit, the same sister as the previous night—Anaide—was leading the worshippers in the song. And perhaps it was the acoustics, perhaps it was some metaphysical phenomenon, but it seemed there were times when her voice stood out above all the others, powerful and almost supernatural.

The Doma stood in front of the altar but still back from the edge of the dais.

Rex could barely see her.

Anaide's voice rose in a crescendo, echoed by the rest of the pilgrims.

A twisted column of light reached down from the highest recess of the dome, touching the dais in front of the Doma. And a figure began to take shape.

Rex recognized it immediately. It was the figure from the statue. Me'Ente Loge. Rex's guard went up. He had seen too many powerful species masquerading as gods to less developed species; and he was not yet convinced that such was not the case here.

The figure of Me'Ente Loge stood not as tall as his statue, but certainly taller than an average human. He was robed and veiled, his garments flowing and moving as if they themselves contained life.

Doma Maree dropped to her knees before him and bowed her head as she held her hands up, cupped in the manner of begging or receiving.

Me'Ente Loge reached down, took her hands and raised her to stand before him. She raised her head and smiled. She continued to hold out her cupped hands, and the messenger hovered his hand over hers, bringing forth a small spume of twinkling light. Then he stepped behind her, and as the light in her hands continued to grow, she raised them high.

There was a sound like the clash and continual roll of thunder, accompanied by voices raised in song. But these voices were not originating from any of the pilgrims. These voices were other-worldly and filled with physical power.

Rex looked for the source of the voices, but they could not be pinpointed. And within seconds, he no longer cared about the voices, for his sense of sight took precedence. He watched in amazement as the clouds of light, moving almost too rapidly for him to see individually, dove down to the Doma's waiting, outstretched hands. They flowed into her body, but then Rex noticed flashes of colored light speeding through the tiled floor.

The people inside the sanctuary were ecstatic, very nearly in raptures.

Rex had no idea what was going on. He looked down below his own feet, where a flash of orange and brown passed by, then another grey streak, and another and another. He looked behind him and saw the entire floor beneath its surface was alive with color. Alive with . . . moving creatures. Animals.

And then, within a minute, it was over.

The whirlpool of cloud was gone, and only the milky white shapes along the walls remained, along with Me'Ente Loge who now came and stood before the Doma once again.

Maree's voice rose in chant, beautiful and with a note of closure.

She continued to hold out her hands, and Me'Ente Loge withdrew the spark of light.

Then, in a gesture Rex never would have expected from a deity—or a deity's messenger—he put his hand against her cheek in a gentle caress.

He stepped back, but the Doma put her hand atop his, stopping him. A sort of shocked hush fell over the sanctuary. Clearly, the Doma was doing something that was not part of the ritual.

She spoke a very few words that no one could hear other than Au-Mikiel, who had been just behind her on the dais the whole time.

Rex watched anxiously, wondering what she could be saying. And then the exchange ended, and Me'Ente Loge departed in much the same manner he had come, the other figures along the wall going with him.

The entire sanctuary erupted into raucous jubilation.

Rex started backing his way towards the exit.

He needed to clear his head.

No sooner had he gone outside than he heard Pitch's voice behind him. He turned to see him and Hardcase coming out of the Taber.

"Captain, are you alright?" Pitch asked.

Rex scowled. "Of course, I am. I just needed to get out of there. Damned stuffy."

"That was incredible," Hardcase bubbled. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Yeah," Rex murmured, but he did not want to talk about it.

"Oh, Top would have been ecstatic," Hardcase continued enthusiastically.

"You got that right," Pitch agreed.

Again, Rex was diffident. "Yeah, well . . . you can tell him all about it when you see him. But right now, since I managed to get you out of Kix's room, why don't you both go get cleaned up, get something decent to eat, and get some rest."

"If it's all the same to you, Captain, we'd like to go back to his room," Pitch replied.

"Well, it isn't all the same to me, and—" He stopped. He saw something in their eyes that hadn't been there before they'd witnessed what had happened in the Taber. The listless, joyless vacancy that had taken up residence in their faces was now replaced with vigor and hopefulness and excitement.

Whatever had happened in the sanctuary—bizarre as it was—it had given them something to hold onto, and Rex considered it might be put to best use to try and lure Jesse up out of his doldrums.

"Okay, fine. Let's go."

They came to the far end of the botanical garden, just before the entrance to the healing houses. And here, they stopped short.

Jesse was sitting on one of the benches, hunched over, head in hands.

"Oh fek, no . . . no . . . " Hardcase swore under his breath.

The three of them raced forward.

"Jesse?!" Rex barked.

Jesse raised his head, and in the dappled moonlight, his eyes glistened.

He was smiling.

"What—what are—what's happened?!" Hardcase demanded.

Jesse hesitated a moment to ensure he had control of his voice. "He's awake."

Hardcase stared a moment before hunkering down beside the bench, gripping Jesse's wrist, and closing his eyes. Behind him, Pitch put a hand on his shoulder.

Rex looked at the three of them and felt a sense of relief – not just on Kix's account, but on theirs, as well.

Pitch, in an emotional outburst, blurted out, "Fek! I'm going to say a fekking prayer, just in case there is a god and this was his doing. Thank you. My prayers might not mean much, but . . . " His voice grew softer. "Thank you." It might not have been the most pious of prayers, but it suited the moment.

"From me, too," Hardcase added.

"What the hell, from me, too," Jesse said, allowing a laugh to escape his lips that almost turned into a sob of joy, had he not mastered the art of self-control.

Rex smiled at them. His soldiers. His brothers.

"Let's go in and see him," he said. "Why are you out here?"

"The docs are checking him out," Jesse answered, standing up and regaining his bearing. "They wanted me to wait out in the hallway. I came down here, though."

"Well, let's go see if they're done."

Several seconds later, they were at Kix's room. When they knocked on the door, Au-Josat answered.

"Can we see him?" Rex asked.

"I think so," the brother answered. "We're about finished here." He stepped aside, and Rex went in first, stopping in his tracks.

Doma Maree was already there.

"How—how did you get here so quickly?"

"Losla cart," she replied directly. A pause. "I had to come see if Me'Ente Loge kept his promise." She looked at Kix, no longer bathed in the orange light of the cold field, lying sleepily but clearly awake as two sisters finished taking some readers. "And he did."

 ** _The scene at the Finirest is one of my favorites in the whole story, because I just like the imagery (and I cut about 1,000 words of description from it to try and keep the story moving). I always listened to my favorite version of "O Holy Night" when envisioning Rex et al heading for the Taber and then "Resurrection" from Passion of the Christ for the Finirest itself. Eh, you'll see what I mean below. I have to have music while I'm writing to help me create the scene! The "Saint Francis of Assisi" animal lover in me comes through here. And I have to admit . . . I also like the image of Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch in the garden . . . again, you'll see. Lastly, I love the musing Rex has at the start of the chapter regarding Jedi women and such._**


	24. Chapter 24

**_Dear Reader, Thank you first of all to my reviewers: CT-782, CRB35, Queen Nagaina, LLTC, and Teetertottered. I truly appreciate your feedback! This is a somewhat long chapter, and I really had to think about it: clones dancing . . . Hmmm! When I wrote it umpty-ump years ago, I thought, "Oh, that would be fun!" But it was important to me to keep this story fairly serious, so I went the way of Jane Austen! The whole dance bit will probably read like a scene out of one of her stories! Again, a little "spirituality" in here; no judgments! I hope you enjoy! Peace, CS PS. Justin Hayward's Celtic Heart is a gorgeous song that you can find on Youtube. If you like lilting Celtic-sounding stuff, you may like it!_**

Chapter 24 Learning to Dance

" _Everybody can dance. We'll carry our dreams to the highest of heights."_

 _Celtic Heart  
_ Justin Hayward

* * *

"By the Force, we were worried half out of our wits over you." This confession came from Hardcase.

"That's the truth," Jesse agreed. "Pitch even decided to take up praying, if you can believe it."

Pitch nodded his confirmation.

"Sorry I made you worry," Kix replied, his voice raspy and thin. But his brothers didn't care how he sounded. Just to hear him speak after so many days of uncertainty was more than good enough.

"Well, it's not like it's the first time," Hardcase rejoined. "As a medic, you sure end up being the patient an awful lot."

Kix managed a feeble and _not-quite-in-my-right-mind-yet_ curve of his lips that was almost a smile. "Only once on active duty."

"Okay, that's true," Hardcase conceded. "We won't count basic."

"Who was singing?" Kix had already moved on disjointedly to the next topic.

"Singing? You mean the festival singing?" Pitch stated. "We'll, uh, save that for another time, when you're a little more lucid."

Rex stepped forward and regarded his medic with warmth. "Looks like you're going to be okay."

"Captain . . . " It was a force of habit and training that Kix wanted to be more presentable in his captain's presence; but his attempt at ratcheting up his bearing a notch was a complete failure. "Is your arm still bothering you?"

Rex's eyes widened in amusement. Of course, Kix would remember that his captain had injured his arm in a firefight on Pylotta, and the part of Kix that was a medic first and foremost apparently could not be suppressed even by his own fogged mind.

"No, it's not bothering me at all anymore," Rex replied, leaving out the account of the injuries he had sustained since then. "How do you feel?"

"Em . . . tired, kind of weak," Kix answered fuzzily.

"Well, that's no surprise," Rex said. "You've been through a lot."

At this, Au-Josat spoke quietly into Rex's ear. "He remembers what happened, but I don't recommend bringing it up right now. Disturbing memories aren't good for the healing process."

Rex nodded, although he still subscribed to the notion that the clones were bred to overcome all manner of distress – physical and emotional. And Kix was tough – probably a lot tougher than most of them, given the horrors he often came face-to-face with in his job. While injury and death were things the rest of the clones saw for fleeting moments on the battlefield, for Kix and all the other medics in the GAR, they were constantly exposed to the flow of suffering and pain. Many had grown callouses over their emotions that allowed them to do their job one moment and promptly forget what they'd seen the next.

Kix had never developed any such defense mechanism. He felt every injury and every death of his battalion mates – deeply and fully. In fact, what enabled him to continue on as one of the very best in such a difficult and demanding field without succumbing to grief and burn-out was that very lack of detachment.

Rex thought back to Pylotta when he and Jesse had watched Kix at work over Echo and Grommet's man; he recalled his own pride and gratefulness that Kix was one of his troops. And now, when he thought of how close they'd come to losing him, he was only just beginning to realize how devastating that loss would have been, how much Kix acted as a grounding rod for the lightning tempers that often flared in combat units, how—almost as a matter of course—Kix was the peacemaker, the middleman, the negotiator. The one with good sense.

"You just take it easy and heal up fast," the captain continued. "We need you back on your feet. These guys—" he jerked his head towards Jesse, Pitch and Hardcase, "—can barely function without you."

Kix closed his eyes and grinned. "I know."

With that, Rex eyed the three squad mates. " _Don't_ keep him awake all hours. He needs rest." He crossed his arms and struck a formidable pose. "And now I am officially giving you a direct order. By sunrise, you will all go back to your quarters, eat, sleep, and clean yourselves up. I don't want to see you here until after the midday meal. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Captain," the three replied in unison.

Rex turned and shook Au-Josat's hand. "Thanks, doc."

"There's someone else who deserves as much—or more—thanks as me," the brother replied.

Rex assumed he was referring to the Doma, and so he faced her directly. "Thank you."

Maree raised her brows in surprise. "Me'Ente Loge is the one you should be thanking. I asked him to heal Kix." She paused. "He said that the brothers and sisters caring for him had already healed him, but that he would restore him to his senses. And he did."

Rex was not quite sure he was prepared to thank a being that he did not fully believe in. He still considered that what the Verviens and Austeniens regarded as a deific messenger might, in truth, simply be a higher life form. But the captain saw no harm in expressing some manner of gratitude.

"I don't know what I was seeing in the Taber. I don't know what was going on in there. But whatever the reason for Kix's recovery, I'm grateful for all you and your people have done," he allowed. "Not just for him, but for all of us."

Maree's eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "Merika told me you had not intended to attend the Finirest."

Rex colored slightly. "Oh, well, I hadn't, but . . . well, all the singing and the lights in the sky . . . I had to go see what was going on." He paused and gave a one-sided smile. "I have to admit, that was quite a performance you put on in there."

Maree stared at him with an indecipherable expression. Then, at last, she spoke in a voice that clearly conveyed her disappointment. "Performance?"

Rex immediately regretted his choice of words. "Oh—no, I didn't mean it like that. That—that wasn't the right word. I meant . . . it was very entertaining."

The disappointment morphed into a sort of sad understanding and acceptance. "I suppose that is how you would see it." She looked to Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch. "Gentlemen, I am glad you are at peace once more. If you will excuse me."

Rex saw his men looking expectantly at him. They knew—as did he—that an apology was in order.

But how to apologize for something that he didn't understand or believe?

He turned and went out into the hall after the Doma.

"Doma Maree," he said, pulling up beside her. She stopped walking and faced him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like I was . . . belittling the ceremony," he began earnestly. "To be honest, I don't know what to say. I mean, it was beautiful and mesmerizing, but I didn't know what was going on. I—I wasn't a participant; I was an observer, and I guess I used the kinds of words an observer would use to describe what I saw." It was a stumbling and graceless answer, but filled with honesty and genuine contrition for any offense he might have unwittingly given.

"Apology accepted, Captain," the Doma replied.

"So, you're not angry?"

"Only with your lack of manners," she replied, adding lightly, "But even that short-coming I can overlook in light of your other more . . . engaging qualities."

Rex anticipated a compliment, so he cracked a coy smile. "I have many."

Maree inclined her head. "Indeed, you do. Sometimes, you even demonstrate them."

She began walking again, and Rex walked beside her.

"So, what _was_ happening in there?" Rex asked.

"The Finirest is when the souls of animals are taken into the Taber to be kept under my watch until the gates of eternity are opened," came the direct, unadorned explanation.

When Rex said nothing in reply, the Doma looked over to see him regarding her with many unspoken questions. It appeared he was mindful of talking out of turn and inadvertently giving offense.

"Not every animal soul, to be sure," she continued. "Only those given to me. There are many thousands of keepers throughout the created realms. Some keep animal souls like me. Others keep human—or should I say, more sentient—souls. The souls of the flora, the elements . . . every created entity has some imbuement of soul, whether a natural or supernatural soul. And when the material vessel dies or is destroyed, the soul that animated it then lies in wait."

"In wait . . . for what?"

"For the final judgment and eternity."

"The final judgment?"

"Every soul will be judged by the good or evil it has done during its existence," she replied. "The reason I am so happy that I have been charged with the protection of animal souls is that they can do no evil. They have a nature, and they follow it unflinchingly. I know all of my souls will find peace in eternity."

"That's, uh, that's very profound," Rex muttered uncomfortably.

The Doma, rather than pitying him his discomfort, decided to poke at him. "You, too, have a soul, Captain."

"Oh, well, I . . . em . . . I don't think I'd be very useful in the afterlife," Rex deferred.

"Why not?"

"I'd keep wanting to come back to this life," he answered.

Maree laughed, and Rex was surprised at how much he liked the sound of it.

"You're a very honest man," the Doma said, "I would not have realized how content you were in this life."

Rex looked at her curiously. "Why not? Did you think I must be miserable?"

"Miserable, no. But it does seem to me that enjoyment and fun play no great role in your life," she replied honestly. "Truly, I am surprised that a man who lives every day either fighting or waiting for the next battle would not find such a life utterly disagreeable."

"Part of me does find it disagreeable," Rex conceded. "But another part—the greater part—knows that this is what I was made for, and I'm good at it."

"You were _made_ for this by . . . "

"The Kaminoans, at the request of the Jedi."

"You see no greater hand at work?"

"That's too complicated for me," Rex grinned. "Didn't Cody tell you before he left that I'm a pretty simple-minded man?"

"No, he didn't," she replied. "But even if he had, I wouldn't have believed that for an instant."

The came out into botanical garden where revelers were now exiting the Taber and all manner of booths were coming to life, vending spirits and foodstuffs. Different strains of music came different corners, and a carnival atmosphere was beginning to prevail.

"What's all this?" Rex asked.

"Now, we celebrate," Maree explained. "Two days of food and drink, music and singing and dancing, craft and handiwork. I hope you will join us and convince your men, as well."

"I don't think my men will need convincing," Rex replied.

"And you? Will you come to the festivities?"

"Well . . . maybe," Rex granted. "But don't expect me to sing or dance."

Maree cast him a shrewd eye. "I give you my word that I won't _expect_ it."

Rex felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Is it wrong that I don't trust a holy woman?"

"Rest assured, Captain Rex, I have absolutely no _expectation_ of you singing or dancing. I cannot vouch for what the reality might be."

Rex liked the hint of foreboding in her voice.

"Fair enough," he agreed. "In that case, you can expect to see me at some of the events."

"Very good," Maree said pleasantly. "I can assure you, you will have a fine time."

* * *

The pavilion behind the Austenien's and Vervien's residence was very large, fifty meters by seventy meters, hung with brilliant multi-colored lights, and with flowing white and yellow sheers along the open sides. On one end was a raised platform that was now functioning as a stage, and all around the perimeter were benches and tables and chairs.

The place was filled to capacity with brothers, sisters, pilgrims, men and women and children of all shapes and sizes and ages. On the stage, a group of eight musicians were playing a kind of music that was certainly never played in the lofty halls of upper Coruscant any more than it was played in the murky bowels of the capitol planet. It was a bright, perky kind of music, very rhythmic and easy to follow, with a vocalist—if he could be called that—barking out instructions in a sing-song voice.

The dance, Rex was discovering from his seat along one of the sheer-draped walls, was very structured and unexpectedly fun to watch. Eight couples faced off, two on each side of a square. The movements involved either opposite sides of the square coming to the center and doing something, or a sort of swinging chain of going hand-to-hand with the partner of the opposite sex in the adjacent couple. All to the instructions of the caller.

Almost within minutes of Rex and his men arriving, they were the center of attention; and for most of the clones, a very _willing_ center of attention. Au-Ogusta had brought them in and shown them to a group of tables and benches already reserved for them and immediately provided them with a round of the locally produced spirit. They did not need to be told by their captain that intoxication was unacceptable, but then again, they did not need alcohol to have a good time.

The proof of that came immediately when a group of teenaged girls approached them. They marched straight up and stood arrayed in front of Rex.

"Are you and your soldiers allowed to dance with us?" A pretty blonde asked.

Rex was taken aback by the girl's forwardness, but he replied nonetheless evenly, "They can dance with anyone they want." He shot a warning eye around at his men. "As long as they don't make spectacles of themselves."

"Oh, they've already done that!" the same girl stated.

Rex looked at her with confusion. "I—I beg your pardon?"

"When they went swimming naked! We saw them!" She blurted out, then without waiting a second, she turned to Sixer, whom she seemed to recognize – perhaps from the tattoo on his neck. "Come on! I'll show you how to do the Four-Two. It's easy! You'll love it!" Sixer was hauled off into the crowd before he could even accept her invitation.

Rex felt himself turning every shade of red at the girl's announcement. He'd known such a thing had happened, but to hear it spoken of so openly . . .

He hardly noticed as the other girls drew more of his men up from their seats to take a turn on the floor.

Au-Ogusta looked to Rex and shrugged. "Young girls."

Rex shook his head and sighed. "The Doma told me about the . . . girls' interest in my brothers. She said were a temptation."

"And so it appears," Au-Ogusta chuckled.

Rex watched as his men tried to learn the steps to the dance, led through the motions by the young girls, who all looked as if they'd found the key to happiness.

Sixer, March, and Tip seemed to pick up the moves right away, while the others muddled through. At one point, during the succession of partner exchanges, Sempe found himself partnered with Double Barrell, and the two pushed each other away with a great show of mock indignation.

They were having great fun, and even Rex had to admit that coming here was a good idea.

Many of the little boys whom the clones had _trained_ showed up and even they danced with the little girls who were present, although the former were just as happy to run about creating havoc.

For the next hour, Rex kept a subtle eye out for the Doma, but she was nowhere to be seen, and he began to despair of seeing her at all that evening. There were so many celebrations going on, she might have gone to another location.

No matter. He focused his attention once more on the dance floor, where Echo—apparently well and fully healed—was holding onto the hands of the blond-haired girl, spinning around and around as the music came to an end and they both staggered a few dizzy steps before Bounce reached out a hand to steady them.

"Preela will have danced with every one of your men before the night is out," Au-Ogusta said. "She and Lutcha are very . . . forward." He paused, "Although they will have to make way for the ni-Doma, for they will want to dance as well."

"And not just the ni-Doma."

Rex and Au-Ogusta looked to their right to see Sister Anaide approach. She took a vacant seat across from them and looked out to the dancers.

"Are the brothers and sisters allowed to dance?" Rex asked.

"Of course," Au-Ogusta replied. "Look out there . . . you see many of them already dancing."

Rex saw that this was, in fact, the case. After all, what concern could there be with such dancing? It was not intimate, although some of the slower numbers involved a bit more contact – though at "waltz" distances.

The current number ended and several of the clones returned to the tables.

"Boy, those girls are sure persistent," Sixer announced breathlessly.

"You didn't seem to mind," Sempe ribbed.

"Yeah, but I can't believe a girl is dancing me into my grave," Sixer quipped. "They never get tired."

Echo then emerged from the milling crowd, and seeing Anaide at the table, he joined her with his usual amiable smile.

"Have you come to hear more stories?" he asked. "You were my best audience."

"I am always happy to listen to you tell your tales," Anaide replied. "But this time I have come to dance."

"With me?" Echo saw nothing wrong with his directness.

And neither did Anaide. "If you will ask me," she replied.

Echo beamed. He liked the way things worked here. He got back to his feet, and he seemed not in the least bit tired. "Will you dance with me?"

Anaide stood. "I would be happy to."

The musicians began to play something that sounded like a jig or a reel, and right away Anaide showed her skill, leading Echo through the steps. By the first coda, Echo had picked up the pattern and took over the lead.

"You're a fast learner," she complimented him. "And a very good dancer."

"We're adaptable," Echo smiled. "Although I didn't know that dancing was part of our adaptability."

"Have you _ever_ danced before?"

"No, I can't think of a single time," Echo replied. "We haven't ever really had the opportunity." He looked down at her with a gleam in his eye. "You're the first woman I've ever been this close to."

"You were dancing with some of the other girls when I came in," she pointed out.

"Yes, they're girls," he replied. "Very sweet, but _girls_."

"And very intense," Anaide laughed. "They have been talking about nothing but you and your brothers since the day you arrived."

"Well, we _are_ charming," Echo winked.

"Indeed, some of you more than others," Anaide agreed.

They danced the next three dances together, and then the musicians struck up a minuet, slow and precious and beautiful.

At a turn in their dance, Echo's gaze fell on a little girl sitting at a table on the opposite side from where he and his brothers were sitting. He had seen her many times as he'd danced, but she had never been out on the dance floor. Rather, she had sat the entire time on a bench next to a matronly woman who kept close tabs on her. She watched the other children dancing, and every time a boy came anywhere near the bench, she watched intently, seemingly in the hopes of being asked to dance. Then as the boys passed her by in favor of other little girls, she went back to looking into her lap and twirling the bow on her frock.

Echo could see why they were not asking her. Her face was deformed, and clearly the boys felt uncomfortable with the idea of asking her to dance – despite their being raised in a religious environment.

"That little girl . . . no one's asked her to dance all night," Echo stated, the pity clear in his voice.

"That's Yusani," Anaide replied. "She was born with that deformity, and sadly, children at her age can be very thoughtless."

Echo was silent for several seconds, then he looked Anaide in the eye. "Would you mind?"

The sister knew there was a reason she liked this soldier better than all the others. "Not at all."

With that, Echo approached the little girl.

When she realized that this tall, handsome soldier was coming directly to her, she backed up and hid behind the folds of the woman's frock.

Echo hunkered down in front of her.

"Would you please dance with me?" he asked gently, holding out his hand.

The girl looked as if she could not believe her eyes. She turned an excited gaze to the woman.

"Go on, my dear, the soldier wants to dance with you," the woman permitted with a loving smile.

The girl held out a tepid, trembling hand.

Echo took that tiny hand in his own and led her out only a few steps, being sure to keep in view of the matron. It became clear right away that dancing with a little girl was not practical, given the difference in height, so he leaned down, picked her up and balanced her on his hip.

"Much better!" he said.

The little girl stared at him, and Echo could see the awe and dreamy adoration in her eyes. It gave him a warm feeling inside, to know that he was bringing happiness to this child.

"You're a very good dancer," he told her.

She said nothing but her smile broadened.

"My name is Echo," he went on.

This made her giggle. "Echo," she repeated, then in rough Basic, she said, "I like."

"Thank you." And even though he already knew the answer, he asked, "What's your name?"

"Yusani."

"That's a pretty name . . . for a pretty little girl."

"No pretty," she disagreed.

"I think you're beautiful," Echo insisted, and he meant it. There was something about this child that reached deeper than just her appearance. It was quite simple, really: Echo had never had anyone look at him with the sort of enchanted love that Yusani had so quickly bestowed. Was the way she looked at him the same sort of expression that a father saw whenever he looked at his own child?

She motioned him close and whispered in his ear. "You pretty."

"Thank you," he replied.

"I like you most," she went on.

"But I'm the same as my brothers," Echo pointed out.

Yusani shook her head and gave a lopsided smile that was so genuine, so without self-consciousness, that it almost brought tears to his eyes.

"I like you most," she repeated.

The minuet ended and was followed by a more rousing number.

Echo looked at his partner. "Will you dance with me again?"

Of course, the response was a fervent head nod.

Echo looked over to the side where Anaide was smiling in a manner that told him the sister not only approved but was delighted at his show of attention for Yusani. He also noticed that many other little girls were looking on longingly, hoping for their own turns to dance with a dashing soldier.

Rex sat at his table and watched.

He watched Echo show, once again, just what made him such an exceptional man. Fighting skills aside, marriage to the regulations aside, Echo possessed a quality that Rex had only glimpsed on the Rishi moon.

Echo was a very sentimental, easily moved, and perhaps overly optimistic man who never despaired of the possibility of making everything right. Whatever wrongs plagued the galaxy, he was confident goodness could win the day. The loss of Hevy, Cutup and Droidbait, painful as it had been, had not dampened his spirit. He felt their absence every day; he missed them. But what separated him from Fives was his ability to see the way ahead, to find some meaning in even the most seemingly meaningless occurrences.

They were good qualities to have, and Rex considered himself fortunate that, though barely beyond Shinie, Echo was now a part of the 501st.

But good fortune seemed to be in great abundance tonight, proof being the arrival of Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch.

At first, Rex thought his eyes might be deceiving him; but as they drew nearer, led by Au-Sinti, he felt a great sense of satisfaction that they had finally—and apparently, willingly—pulled themselves away from Kix's side. Last night, they had done as ordered and gone back to their quarters, but Rex had found them once again in Kix's room immediately following the midday meal.

They were nothing, if not devoted.

"I'm surprised to see you all here," Rex announced as they sat down.

"He kicked us out," Hardcase grinned.

"Who?"

"Kix!" This from Pitch.

Rex thought this was very funny.

"He told us we were hovering," Jesse stated. "It bothered him to think we were there watching while he tried to sleep."

"Good for him," Sixer put forth, joining them.

Rex nodded. "I don't blame him for wanting some privacy."

"Yeah, me neither," Jesse agreed.

"He looked pretty good this morning," Rex noted.

"Yeah, he's definitely feeling better. I can tell because he kept complaining about needing a shave," Pitch simpered. "I told him I could get one of the sisters to do it, and he completely refused. When did he get so bashful?"

"He's always been that way," Jesse pointed out. "You just have a selective memory."

"Eh, maybe," Pitch conceded.

"He wasn't happy about the tat." This from Hardcase. "We told him he'll just need to get it redone."

"I'm sure he was thrilled about that," Sixer drawled. "I remember when you guys took him to get it the first time."

"Hey, the _hair_ was our idea. The tattoo was his," Hardcase protested.

Rex unconsciously shook his head at the absurdity of their conversation and the way it made him feel at peace, at home with these men who comprised his family. He picked up the tankard Au-Ogusta had placed before him when they'd first arrived and took a swig of the now warm liquid. It definitely had lost something over the ensuing hours and was barely palatable.

He was considering going to get another one, but as he raised his eyes, he saw the Doma approaching through the crowd.

The rest of the clones saw her as well.

"Uh-oh," Sixer grinned wickedly. "You think she's coming to say that some of us are a little too wild on the dance floor?"

Rex blanched, taking him seriously. "Good grief! Who's out-of-line?"

"Oh—no one, Sir," Sixer replied. "I was kidding." A pause. "But Tip and Double Barrel are certainly putting on a show."

"Oh no, no, no," Rex moaned. "I don't need trouble."

It was clear the Doma was taking a direct line to the captain, and this brought smiles of anticipation from his troops.

"I think trouble is headed your way, Captain," Jesse remarked. "She's coming straight towards you."

"All of you, just—just be on your best behavior," Rex ordered. He cleared his throat and got to his feet as the Doma came and stood in front of him.

"Captain," she greeted him with a tilt of her head.

"Doma."

"Are you and your men enjoying yourselves?" she inquired.

"Yes, very much," Rex replied with all the good manners he'd been taught to exhibit among civilian populations – and certainly more than he'd shown since coming to the Monastica. The Doma's reproach on his lack of manners was still fresh in his mind . . . and so were the stirrings that he'd felt the day before, even greater now after the conversation with her in the botanical garden last night.

"I see many of your men are dancing," Maree noted.

"I hope they're not getting too carried away," Rex preemptively apologized.

"Not at all," she replied. "But I think it is time you joined them." She held out her hand.

Rex felt his throat tighten.

" _Fek and all, this isn't what was supposed to happen. She was supposed to come over here and complain about my men being out of control!"_

He was in a predicament now, for he knew the eyes of his men were upon him, waiting to see what he would do. Not only that, but he could also feel the eyes of the other revelers turned in his direction – or more accurately, in the Doma's direction, watching her exchange with the leader of the clone troopers.

"Oh, I, uh, I'm honored, Doma, but . . . but I don't know how to dance like you do here," he made his excuse.

"If your men can learn, so can you."

 _Damn!_

"Yes, but you know, I'm still pretty sore from reinjuring my ribs and—"

"We can hold you up, Captain."

This interruption from Sixer brought a scathing glare from the captain; but it might have been the first time such an expression failed to elicit the desired reaction, for Rex could see right away that every clone present was on Sixer's side.

Sixer didn't even flinch. "I mean, if it's that bad, Captain, we can make sure you don't keel over—"

"Stop," Rex said flatly. He was not going to win this one without embarrassing or offending the Doma. "If I'm going to do this, I can handle it myself. I don't want to feel like I'm dancing with my own men."

He accepted her hand and as they walked into milling throng of dancers, he shook his head and spoke in a rueful voice. "I don't know why my men feel like they need to humiliate me in public."

"I don't think that was their intention at all," Maree deferred. She turned to face him, and they assumed a classic waltz stance, even though the music was not a waltz at all. Rex didn't recognize the style, and he wasn't very focused on it, either. He was more concerned with not making a fool of himself.

"Well, it sure felt that way," he grumbled.

"I think they'd do anything for you," Maree stated, adding playfully, "Maybe even teach you how to dance."

"Hey, don't give me a hard time about this," Rex protested. "I told you I didn't know how to do this kind of dancing."

The Doma looked up at him with an expression he could not decipher. There was an element of fondness, maybe even some sympathy for his discomfort; but that was not all. Rex had never seen such a look directed at him before, and he was at a loss to understand it.

It wasn't possible—it couldn't be possible that . . . that the Doma had the same feelings towards him that he was experiencing towards her.

"I think there is very little you cannot do, once you decide it's worth your while, Captain," Maree asserted.

Rex decided a little boastfulness was permissible. "That's true. I make it a point to try and be the best in every area where I might need to lead my men."

Maree could not pass up the chance to tease him. "Such as dancing?"

Rex grinned. "By the time the night is over, I'll be better than all of them put together."

"Bold prediction from the man who had to be _humiliated_ into standing up with me," the Doma shot back.

Rex turned the topic. "If I had known everyone was going to be staring at us the whole time, I would have found a way to politely refuse."

At this, Maree laughed heartily. "Do not try to pretend, even for one second, that you don't enjoy the attention!"

"Sure, but that's not the same as feeling as if I'm on display," Rex countered.

"You would make a good display."

Rex was not sure what to make of this remark, but Maree continued on without prompting.

"The perfect example of the perfect soldier."

"Ah, well, I like that." He paused. "But it still makes me feel a little strange to have all these people staring at me."

"In all fairness, they're staring at me probably as much or more than they're staring at you," the Doma explained. "You see, they've seen me dance many times . . . but never with someone like you. I've always danced with the brothers or the beginners or residents of the Wayward Houses. You—like your men—are new and exciting." She leaned close and lowered her voice. "The young girls . . . they are all waiting to see if the gallant captain steals their Doma's heart." She laughed quietly. "They are silly, romantic things, these young girls."

Rex suddenly felt very much more in command than he had since coming to the Monastica, and he wasn't sure why. "But they know that you—the Sisters—you can't fall in love. They know that, don't they?"

Maree looked at him with surprise. "Is that the impression we have given you?"

"Well . . . yes," he answered bluntly. "You don't get married, you don't have—you're celibate. I assumed, then, that you avoided falling in love."

"I believe falling in love would be impossible to avoid, if it is meant to be," Maree replied. "In what capacity a lover chooses to act upon that love is another matter altogether." A pause. "These girls have not yet realized that there are more facets to love than the romantic, physical aspects that they dream about."

Rex was intrigued by her words. "I guess, as a clone, I never gave it much thought. Women don't play much of a role in our lives. We notice them, of course, but . . . the pace of the battle doesn't give us much time to do more than that." He looked at her curiously. "So, you aren't worried what people might think when they see you dancing with me?" He added quickly, "And by the way, I like the sound of gallant captain. Not sure it really fits, but I like it."

The Doma gazed at him, thinking that he might have just become the most gallant man—captain or otherwise—she had ever met. "It fits," she said. A pause. "And no, I'm not worried."

 _ **Some additional remarks. I do love the scene with Echo and Yusani. It's one of my favorites and written especially for a friend of mine who has a beautiful Downs Syndrome little girl. The minuet they dance to is Bauernmenuett (Peasant's Minuet), and again, if you can find it online, it's worth a listen - so pretty. I also like that Kix "kicks" them out of his room! And the "gallant captain" . . . he's a bit cocky but so much fun!**_


	25. Chapter 25

_**Dear Reader, well, this is a little odd. I'd typed my usual opening/closing remarks, but they didn't take on the save. So, I'm retyping them and I'll repost. Thanks to my reviewers once again! I'm especially glad to see that the Yusani/Echo scene was well-received. She does appear in a few more scenes. I wrote and rewrote and rewrote this chapter, because it was originally so sugary, I was afraid I'd send everyone into a diabetic coma! Hopefully, there's only a little taste of honey left! I'll put most of my notes at the bottom, but one upfront. The lyrics to the song that opens the chapter is from the Bollywood movie Rang de Basanti, and it's truly a lovely piece. I imagine Maree to look Indian (as in from India), so a Hindi song appealed to me. Enjoy, CS**_

Chapter 25 Gallant Captain

" _Mann ki gali tu phuharoon si aa (Come to the street of my heart like a rain shower)  
bheeg jaye mere khwabon ka kafila (Let the caravan of my dreams be drenched)  
jise tu gungunaye meri dhun hai wahin (What you sing, that alone is my tune)  
tu bin bataye mujhe le chal kaheen (Without saying a word, you take me to a place)  
jahan tu muskuraye meri manzil wahin (where you smile, and that is my only destination)._

 _ **Tu Bin Bataye  
**_ Prashoon Joshi and A.R. Rahmen

It turned out, not to Rex's surprise, that he _was_ a good dancer. He picked up the movements easily, and his unhindered confidence gave him a boost when it came to learning and mastering new things. To be sure, he had danced before – on Coruscant at several events he'd attended with General Skywalker. There had never been any true call for Rex—a mere clone captain—to attend the formal balls and receptions that the general was expected to attend; but Skywalker had made it clear from the earliest moments of their acquaintance: _"If I have to suffer through it, so do you."_

Of course, those affairs were nothing like the festival he was at now. The atmosphere that prevailed around him felt like those gatherings he'd only heard of, held in the uncivilized hinterlands of most inhabited planets, free-wheeling and without the stuffy sophistication of the highly organized events of the upper crust. And while this had not the baseness and crudity of the lower level clubs of Coruscant—for he'd been in those, as well—a certain sense of ease pervaded the night's festivities, and Rex found himself trying to recall when he'd last had as much fun.

He stayed on the floor with Doma Maree for two rather folksy trounces following the quasi-waltz; and although he knew his men were watching him with appraising and amused eyes, he also knew that it made them happy to see him enjoying himself; for Rex had figured out long ago that his men believed their captain deserved to be content. For all that he gave of himself for the good of his men, Rex's soldiers reciprocated in whatever ways they could. Genuine affection for their captain was never in short supply.

At the conclusion of the second _trounce_ , he glinted at Maree with a cocksure smile. "I'm not wearing you out, am I?"

Maree puffed out a heavy breath. "I can certainly tell you are well-healed."

"Eh, my side's actually still a little sore," he admitted. "I didn't feel it while we were dancing, but I feel it now, standing here."

"Then a pause is in order," the Doma stated with quiet authority. "You do not need to reinjure yourself again. Especially when it would be my fault." She paused. "Will you walk outside with me?"

Rex inclined his head to the side in consent. "I will." It seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do.

And he was glad he'd agreed to it, for outside the crowded pavilion, the night air felt comparatively cool and invigorating. There were many people lingering about in the area immediately surrounding the pavilion. Food and drink booths were set up and busily supplying the revelers with a variety of fare.

Doma Maree passed by these booths and took one of the pathways that wended its first east then north towards the wilderness. Rex accompanied her.

"Commander Cody and Au-Trava should have reached Heembab by now," the Doma announced.

"With no communication, there's really no way of knowing, is there?" Rex asked.

"No," she replied. "And that circumstance has never bothered me until now. I admit that I want to know if they have arrived safely. The Separatists, when they left here, may have been headed for Heembab. I pray that they did not spot them on the way."

Rex was upbeat. "Cody's very clever, probably the smartest man in the entire GAR. Even if they were spotted, he'd find a way to get out of it."

"The desert isn't an easy place to hide," Maree pointed out.

"I'm sure that's what everyone thinks, and that idea is what the commander would use to his advantage," Rex replied. A pause. "I just hope he can contact the fleet."

They walked on a bit further. The sounds of music from the pavilion slowly faded as other music from closer celebrations took up where the other left off. But it all sounded like the last in a series of echoes as they moved further afield. The lights faded behind them, showing the night sky in all its wonder.

"The stars are very beautiful. I marvel at the Creator's might," Maree said.

Rex raised his eyes and saw the pinpricks of light. "I've never really noticed if they were beautiful or not. They're always just . . . there. I fly through them. I use them from time to time to chart courses . . . when the navi-computer isn't working."

The Doma looked at him with a degree of subtle pity. "One of our great philosophers had a saying: 'We go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, and we pass ourselves by without wondering.'" She stopped walking and turned to face him. "That's you, Captain."

Rex simpered. "I thought we were talking about the stars."

She continued to regard him steadily. "We are."

Rex felt the warmth rise in his face. He gave a nervous laugh. "I'm, uh, I've always been too busy to pay much attention to anything but battle plans."

"You pay attention to your men."

"Any good leader does that," Rex replied. "You know what I mean. You're in a leadership position, too." He hit on a thought, and a satisfied grin formed across his face. "In fact, that quote you just said: it could be about you, too."

Maree laughed, a soft sweet sound. " _You_ are the one worthy of wonder, Captain. Not me."

Rex guffawed. "Someone who can sense injury with the touch of her hand? Someone who can do whatever it was that I saw last night in that temple? I think you've got it backwards, Doma."

"No. I have it quite right," she said with certainty. "That a special gift is put to use is no wonder at all. That an ordinary man can be so . . . extra-ordinary; that is where the wonder lies."

"Well, you're certainly giving me quite an ego," Rex said.

"I think you already had quite an ego," the Doma quipped.

Rex considered for a moment. "I also intend to prove that I truly do have good manners." He held out his arm.

Doma Maree was touched by the gesture. She hesitated only a moment before looping her arm through his, and gazing up at him, she felt as if she were seeing him for the first time. She had always thought he was handsome, but now, when she looked at him, he was beyond handsome. His charm and sincerity—even his arrogance—he was beautiful. There was not a jot of falsehood in him, at least none that was detectable in the rather severe expression that was his usual countenance. And when the rare smile did occasionally grace his features, its impact was all the more meaningful, given the scarcity of its appearance. He was exactly what a soldier should be: brave, honest, generous, and . . . if she dared say it, _manly_. While Maree could easily detect the sensitivity beneath the gruff surface, she was impressed that Rex betrayed not even the slightest hint of softness, daintiness, or sweetness. Here stood a soldier who was male through and through. And not one bit apologetic about it.

"You're looking at me like that, but I don't know what you're thinking," Rex said in his straightforward way.

The Doma saw no reason to withhold the truth. "I'm thinking what a good man you are, and how nice it is to be here with you."

Of all the answers he could have imagined, this was not one of them. Her words gave him great satisfaction and contentment to the point where he felt no response was necessary except to continue walking.

Several minutes passed in silence, then Maree spoke again.

"Are you happy here, Captain?"

"You know, you _can_ call me Rex."

"And I shall, when it feels right. Are you happy here?"

"Yes," Rex replied.

Maree could hear the unspoken reservation. She looked at him with delving eyes.

"And no," Rex conceded. "Please don't take that the wrong way. I mean, it's beautiful here, and your people have been wonderful. They way they've taken care of us . . . it's all more than I could have asked for." He drew a deep breath. "But as a soldier, I—I'm not used to this kind of peace. My general, my brothers are out there fighting, and I want to be with them. I hate the idea of them being in the middle of a battle zone, and I'm not there to lead and protect them." A pause. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but I always feel that, as long as I'm there, everything will be alright." He made a sound of anguish. "Even though I know that's not true. I've lost so many men . . . even while I was standing right there, watching them die, and I couldn't do anything to save them. But I'd rather be there than not."

"It sounds like a hard life," Maree said.

"Like I told you last night, it's what we were created for."

"You and I will continue to disagree on that," she differed. "It may be what the Kaminoans created you for, but there is a greater architect; and since I know how uncomfortable the subject makes you, I will leave it at that."

Rex was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was with cautious curiosity. "Don't you think it's possible that . . . that your architect made me for the same purpose? To lead these men into battle? Isn't that a gift?" He went on without waiting for an answer. "Not too long ago, I met a man, a clone who had deserted the army. He'd watched all this brothers get killed, and he felt his life had no meaning, so he ran away from the army. He became a farmer. He married a Twi'lek woman and raised her two children as his own." His gaze drifted off over the treetops. "I had to stay with them while I was recovering from an injury. He tried to convince me that I wanted the same things he had – a wife and family." He was having difficulty choosing his words. "And . . . it was a very . . . comforting scene. It was like looking at a painting. So perfect, so tempting. But still, only a painting, and one that I knew I could never be a part of. It wasn't me. Cut was wrong," he said, referring to the deserter. "The life that he wanted, the life that he had, it was perfect. For him. But it wasn't perfect for me."

As he spoke, he did not notice that he had drawn his linked arm closer to his chest. It was as if he'd forgotten he that he'd taken the Doma's arm in his, and some reflexive part of him was pulling in defensively. He went on with carefully spoken words. "You have no idea what it's like to look at something and find it . . . calling out to you; but you know it's not meant for you."

The Doma could feel the distress that had suddenly surged through his body. She turned her wrist and took his hand, drawing his arm back down in an effort to ease the tension. "On the contrary, I know exactly what you are talking about," she replied. She kept a hold on his hand and began walking. "Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to be a Vervien Sister. But I also wanted to get married and have a family. I knew I couldn't do both. When I found out that I had been given the gift of Skrit-Na, I knew the choice I had to make. Yet, for a long time, I feared I could never be good enough to be a Sister. They're very pious, very holy people. So, I kept waiting and putting it off."

"What made you finally decide?"

"It was a sign from the Creator," she replied. "More than that, I won't say. It's a private matter."

"Do you ever regret your decision?"

"Never. Being a sister has been the greatest blessing," she replied. "It's had its challenges, but I've been up to each one." A pause. "I would ask you if you regret your decision, except you never really had a choice, did you? I think, for you, desertion would never have been an option. And you don't have the freedom to leave the army. War is the only life you've been offered." She tightened her grip on his hand, hoping to encourage him to continue being open with her. In the last twenty minutes, he said more than he had the entire ten days prior. "What happens when the war ends?"

"I don't know," Rex answered truthfully. "Right now, I'm just focused on trying to survive it."

"You seem pretty resourceful to me," she said. "Even so, we will pray for your safety and the safety of your men even after you've left here."

"I should tell you that a clone's survival on the front lines isn't even one standard year," Rex told her.

"How long have _you_ been fighting?"

"Just over a year." He grinned ruefully. "So, you see, I should have been knocked off by now."

"You're very glib about it," the Doma noted. "You're not like that when it comes to your men."

"That's because they're _my_ responsibility," Rex replied. "Just like all the lives within these walls are your responsibility, Doma."

"You can call me Maree," she said.

Rex seized on the moment to repeat her own words. "And I will. When it feels right."

In the next instant, he froze.

"Did you hear that?" He was immediately on the alert. "There's someone or something in the bushes behind us."

Maree didn't appear nearly as concerned. In fact, she was not concerned at all.

"I think our audience followed us from the pavillion," she whispered.

"What?"

"I've thought they were behind us most of the time we've been out here. Some of the children who were watching us dance. They're curious, of course," she explained, adding, "And they _truly_ have no manners."

Rex wasn't sure whether to laugh or feel embarrassed. "They've been following us this whole time, and I didn't detect them?"

"Maybe you had more important things on your mind," Maree replied, then a sly grin played across her lips. "But since they went to all the trouble of following us, let's make them work for it." She leaned over and pulled the back of the frock between her legs and tucked it into her cumber bund. "Follow me!"

She took off like a _mila-cat,_ and Rex followed her.

He could hear the sounds of pursuit and the occasional giggle and snicker of young children, and he could not help but marvel at the idea of a reserved and pious woman, a religious leader, taking these children on a wild run through the dark in the wilderness. Not that there was anything wrong with the chase itself; but rather, he was surprised that the Doma would act in such an undignified, even child-like, manner – pleasant as he might find such behavior to be.

Still, he found his side beginning to ache after about a minute of dashing through the trees, making abrupt turns, and leaping across the stream at its narrower parts. He was about to announce, in all humiliation, that he needed to stop; but then Maree drew up to a stop and snagged him by the sleeve, pulling him into a small recess in a clump of scrubby Eylick bushes.

They were on a low lip of rock just above of the pools.

"Do you think we lost them?" Rex asked breathlessly. He found it was actually rather fun to evade an enemy that wasn't trying to kill him. He didn't wait for an answer before peering around the clump of bushes, and seeing no one in pursuit, he looked out across the water to the other side. "Where could they have gone? I could hear them behind us most of the way."

Instead of receiving an answer, he found himself plunging sloppily into the pool. Splashing immediately to the surface, he looked up to see the Doma standing on the ledge with her hands planted firmly on her hips and satisfied grin plastered across her face.

"Wh-what did you do that for?!" Rex demanded, not angrily—for he was not in the least upset, just stunned.

The Doma took on a deep, mocking voice. "I was going to use that communicator to contact the fleet," she aped.

Rex felt the smile creeping into his expression. "Is that supposed to be an imitation of me?"

"Just getting even," Maree snipped.

Rex swam to the ledge. "Are holy people supposed to be vengeful?"

"No," she answered. "But you deserved it. I really believed you when you told me that about the communicator, and it made me feel terrible."

"Yes, but I confessed right away that it was a joke. Didn't that earn me some forgiveness?" He chuckled. "But I guess I did deserve it." He held up his hand. "Come help me out."

"There's no chance of that, Captain," Maree replied. "You are perfectly capable of getting out of the water on your own. I'm not going to be pulled down in there with you."

Unbidden and utterly unexpected, a very sexual image floated up in Rex's mind, prompted by the words of her refusal. He wanted her down in the pool with him. He wanted to reach out and touch her through the medium of water, beneath the surface where the movements would be unseeable. He wanted to feel her hands on his waist, sifting through the layers of soaked cloth, searching for his bare skin . . .

And then the reverie was shot to pieces as all around him, the night was filled with children's voices raised in laughter and shouting, and the water erupted in sprays and plumes raised by those very same children as they jumped into the pool.

Within seconds, he had at least a dozen—maybe more—playmates. Mostly the young boys who had sat so mesmerized at the feet of the clones, absorbing all their tales. Rex, as the leader of the soldiers, had quickly become one of the boys' favorites, and he would not begrudge them this moment – even though it did make him feel a bit odd to know that these children had followed him and the Doma all the way from the pavilion, hoping to steal a glimpse of affection.

On the ledge with the Doma stood a number of the teenaged girls. Rex was surprised they'd managed to pull themselves away from his brothers, given how entranced they'd been. He half-hoped they would push the Doma into the water, but it became quite clear that, while the girls felt at ease and comfortable with Maree—enough to follow her on her walk—they had a certain line they would not cross. Apparently, dousing the spiritual leader was on the other side of the line.

"Were they all in on this?" Rex asked.

"No," Maree answered, her smile visible in the moonlight. "It certainly wasn't planned. It's just that when we ended up hiding here beside the water, I remembered that you had a punishment coming to you. It seemed like a perfect opportunity. The children being here just sweetened the brew."

Rex regarded her shrewdly. "So, I take it you're not going to join me. It's nice in here—"

"I'll come in!" Lutcha volunteered and was practically over the edge before the Doma stopped her with a strong hand on her arm.

"Lutcha, my dear, you will not."

"Why not!? Oh Doma, we're fully dressed! It's not like you can see any—"

"The answer is no." The Doma was very serious and firm. "In fact, I want all of you to head back to the festivities. Take the boys with you, and turn them over to the brothers so they can get into something dry."

"Are you and Captain Rex coming back, too?" Preela asked.

"We will be right behind you."

It took some doing before all the boys moped out of the pool, whining, protesting and pleading for more time. But when, at last, they were headed back down the path, they had already recovered their good spirits and were singing and laughing and pretending to be soldiers themselves. The girls went with them.

Rex heaved himself out of the water onto the ledge.

"You know, these clothes might be light and comfortable when they're dry, but soaking wet is another story," he quipped, getting to his feet where he stood with the garments clinging and dripping. He began wringing out the tunic, but to little avail.

"You can take that off to wring it out, the tunic," Maree informed him, which brought a curious expression into Rex's eye.

"I . . . I didn't think that would be appropriate," he admitted, then with a somewhat sardonic humor, he added, "I'd be half-naked out here alone with you."

Maree gave an arch smile. "I've seen you full-naked, Captain. In the healing rooms – many times while you were recovering."

Rex hadn't believed it possible. She had turned the tables on him so quickly, so easily. He was glad it was dark so she couldn't see the color rising in his cheeks.

But she did not need to see him to know she had embarrassed him, and she actually felt a bit sorry for his discomfort, even though she had intentionally aimed at prodding his modesty—or lack thereof, she wasn't really sure which. The question of whether this clone captain was genuinely modest was hardly clear. On one hand, he was clearly confident in himself, his skills, and his ability to achieve whatever he wanted. On the other hand, he sometimes appeared almost painfully self-conscious about what constituted proper behavior from a man in his position.

The latter uncertainty had suddenly leapt in to knock the former confidence off its pedestal. But Maree was not fooled, for she knew the piston was the stronger, dominant force – and that piston would not suffer long to be removed from its place of honor.

"It's part of being a healer," she quickly added, trying to inject a measure of ordinariness into the idea.

"Well, I hope you at least like what you saw," he muttered under his breath, not sure whether he intended for her to hear him or not. He continued to wring out the tunic – while still wearing it.

Her response made it clear that she had heard him quite precisely. "I don't see people that way when I am looking at them as patients," Maree explained. "You looked like an otherwise healthy man who was injured. And who'd been injured many times before."

"That's a clever dodge," Rex challenged.

"What would you have me say, Captain?" she rejoined, and there was a quality to her voice—something almost sad, almost yearning—that made Rex suddenly realize how perplexing and difficult this conversation must appear from her point of view.

"Only what you feel comfortable with saying," he replied.

She was silent several seconds, and when she began her voice contained the sincerity that had marked Rex's brief acquaintance with her. What he had not expected, and what now touched him was the degree to which she divulged her own feelings on the matter.

"Very well, then. As I told you earlier, I think you are a very good man." She paused, as if contemplating whether or not to speak her next thought. "I fear that you possess the kind of goodness that evil despises so much that . . . it goes out of its way to try and destroy it. You're an honest man, Captain; there's nothing artful about you. And so, I will be equally as honest. I think you want to know if I'm attracted to you. If you truly need an answer, then the answer is yes."

Rex grinned, although he wasn't sure why. The fact that she found him attractive was a boon to his ego but not anything that mattered in a practical sense.

Still, he did not try to suppress that warm feeling in his chest. "So then . . . has he?"

She looked at him with a bemused expression. "Has . . . has who what?"

The confidence had fully replaced the uncertainty. "Has the gallant captain won the Doma's heart?"

Maree smiled sweetly. "In every way that counts." Her expression turned from sweet to sad, though the smile still remained. "And I know he understands the . . . limitations of that victory."

"He does." Rex held a wet arm out, and Maree accepted once again. "Because he also has his own set of limitations."

 _ **Note: The quote about "Men travel abroad to see . . . pass themselves without wonder" is from Saint Augustine. He had such brilliant thoughts.**_

 _ **And although readers may not care, I still like to mention the soundtrack I write to. The song up above, Tu Bin Bataye, was the backdrop for when Rex first offers her his arm and the subsequent conversation. And believe it or not, "Under the Stars" from the Lion King came into play as well, especially when they are trying to elude the children. Just for kicks . . .**_

 _ **The scene where Maree shoves him into the water and then imitates/mocks him. One of my all-time most beloved scenes in the entire TCW saga is between Anakin and Ahsoka. In Landing at Point Rain, they are at the wall and Anakin gives her grief about not warning him about the wall. Ahsoka replies, imitating Anakin, "Don't worry, Snips, we won't be anywhere near that wall!" It's so well-animated and well-voice-acted that it makes me laugh every time I see it. My scene was a direct rip-off from that scene. Imitation = flattery.**_

 _ **Lastly, Rex's rather, er, sensual thoughts for a few seconds there . . . I struggled with this because I don't want to go down the road of a romance and have people's expectations move in that direction. The story is about Rex, Anakin, the 501st and 212th, and eventually, it does move on from here. So, if you are reading in hopes of a romantic liaison with steamy writing and happily ever after, I forewarn you that you will be disappointed! :-)**_


	26. Chapter 26

_**Dear Reader, Thank you again to my wonderful reviewers. I will put most comments at the end. Two notes: Dukna is Copian for Lieutenant. And Rex's exposition on General Skywalker was one of the first scenes I wrote in this entire story, and I built the rest of the story around it. It remains, to this day, one of my favorite scenes. Enjoy! CS**_

Chapter 26 In Trutina

" _In trutina mentis dubia  
fluctuant contraria  
lascivus amor et pudicitia.  
Sed eligo quod video,  
collum iugo prebeo:  
ad iugum tamen suave transeo._

 _(Latin)_

English translation:

 _I am suspended  
between love  
and chastity,  
but I choose  
what is before me  
and take upon myself the sweet yoke."_

 _Songs from Benediktbeuern_ (as adapted into Orff's Carmina Burana)

* * *

"Stop. Listen."

Au-Trava, Three-Point, and Moog all halted the movement of their Shempa at Cody's command.

"I hear it," Three-Point announced, his voice containing note of anxious dread. He looked back over his shoulder and scanned the horizon. A pinpoint of black caught his eye, and he knew, even from this distance, precisely what he was looking at. "We've got trouble, Commander. Perfidio-class landing craft, heading this way."

"Looks like the Separatists have managed to track us to this planet. They're probably heading for Heembab," Cody surmised. "But we'll be easy to see, alone out here."

"What should we do, Commander?" Moog asked.

Cody had no good answer. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to take up defensive positions. The only thing he could think of was to bury themselves under the sand – except that in the Swaig Flats, the sand wasn't the fine, powdery stuff of the dunes. The flats had some little moisture, and the sand was mixed with dirt in a crunching, heat-cracked surface. Either way, it was not conducive to concealment. "With any luck, they'll pass us by. We can probably dodge under the Shempa, if we need to. That will at least take away their visual. Keep your weapons concealed but at the ready. Let's see what happens."

"You will not need to fight," Au-Trava spoke up. "There are other ways."

"I'm all ears," Cody replied.

"It will involve a different kind of risk, but if it is successful, it will put an end to their pursuit."

"I'm ready to try anything."

"Come, we must alter our course a bit to the north . . . "

* * *

"Admiral, we have a visual on the lifeforms. Matrixing reveals that three of them could be clones. They have altered their course and are heading northeast."

Lord Admiral Vrehnka settled back in his command chair with a swell of smug satisfaction. "Well, well, flies in the sand. I knew they could not have all been killed in the crash. Clones are tenacious little beasts. Bring the ship down in front of them. Ready four squads."

* * *

"There will not be much time," Au-Trava warned. "As soon as you hear me, do not hesitate."

"You're not leaving us much room for error," Cody grimaced. "If there are battle droids on board that ship, we won't stand a chance, just the four of us against hundreds."

Au-Trava nodded. "That is why you must not hesitate. We will not get a second chance."

"Can, uh, can these things move that fast?" Three-Point asked.

"You would be surprised," Au-Trava replied. "The Shempa can move very fast when necessary."

The ship passed overhead at a low level and descended to land in the sand in front of them.

All four men kept their heads and faces mostly covered by the lungees. Yet, none of them believed that would be a deterrent. They were on the verge of being found out, and Au-Trava's plan was the only possibility of escape.

A boarding ramp lowered, and two squads of battle droids emerged, followed by a Copian wearing the marks of the admiralty. Behind him came two more squads of droids.

"Admiral Vrehnka," Cody swore under his breath, immediately recognizing the Copian as the sadistic hero of the battle of Urque-hars in the years before the official start of the clone wars. The Admiral had been in charge of holding the defensive line of Urque-hars, a Copia-aligned planet, during the great sixty-year war between Copia and its neighboring system, named after its most populated planet, Glemmel. That war had ended abruptly and with finality only two years before the clone wars had started, when Admiral Vrehnka had decided that the planet of Urque-hars was the perfect ambush location for the encroaching Glemmelians.

And he had been right.

Urque-hars had not been densely populated. The main reason for this was that, as a planet still in the early stages of its evolutionary process, it was primarily a ball of explosive gases and liquid, delicately enclosed in a thin outer crust. The inhabitants had been mostly scientific types and a strange category of dreamers who had wanted a fresh start on a newly developing planet that had only just reached a point in its genesis where it was liveable.

Such a volatile planet made for an equally volatile weapon.

Admiral Vrehnke had lured the Glemmelian fleet towards this last line of defense in a war that the Copians had been steadily losing. A single high-tonnage rhydonium warhead fired into the planet's equatorial rift had set off a chain reaction that turned the planet into a bomb, wiping out the enemy fleet and ending the war. And the lives of those who had lived on Urque-hars.

But that was not why he was considered a hero.

No.

After Urque-hars, the Admiral had taken his own fleet to Glemmel to demand a surrender; and receiving it, he then proceeded—with the approval of his own government—to ransack the entire planet. The horrors that followed had gained the Copians their reputation as the master torturers of the galaxy. They were a brutal race, and Cody had seen enough training holo's of their methods to know that these were an enemy in whose hands he never wanted to find himself. In fact, the escape and evasion portion of ARC training had used the Copian model as their mock prisoner of war camp. His experience there had been one of the darkest times of Cody's life, but it had also shown him the leader he was meant to be. It had also forged the final link in the chain of friendship that had been forming between him and Rex, the link that had finally proven that Rex, despite the singularity of his ambition, was not without need. But those were memories for another time.

For seeing Admiral Vrehnke now, in the flesh, Cody had to fight down the urge not to draw his weapon and kill him outright.

Instead, he forced himself to trust in Au-Trava's plan. The Austenien was much better versed in how to defend against an enemy in the desert wilderness.

The two front squads of droids split off to the left and right, and it was clear they were planning to encircle the clones.

A piercing, high-pitch shrieking sound suddenly rose in the air.

It was Au-Trava, and it was a wail the likes of which none of the clones had ever heard. Yet, he had warned them to be ready for it. They knew it was their signal, and as instructed, they prepared to turn their Shempa and bolt.

But it was as if the animals already knew that such a sound signaled an urgent retreat, for before any of the clones could act, the ungainly beasts had already wheeled about and were running full-tilt across the desert, away from the droids and the ship.

And Au-Trava had not been exaggerating when he said they could move quickly under the right circumstances. Cody had been so caught by surprise that he was barely able to hold on.

The pounding of the animal beneath him, however, could not mask the shaking of the earth. The scarred and ugly land of the Swaig Flats began to form fissures that the Shempa dodged with uncanny agility. A shower of sand and caked dirt poured down from above. All hell was breaking loose. But that was what Au-Trava had said would happen.

Cody dared to steal a glance back over his shoulder.

Utter chaos had erupted behind him.

It was a Serpico, disturbed from its underground nest by the very particular call Au-Trava had employed.

The creature was massive. Its snake-like body was at least three meters across at its thickest, and there was no telling how long it was, coiled and roiling in the dust it had kicked up. Long spikes protruded from its top and sides, and they appeared to be trailing a blackish, tar-like liquid, in which battle droids were floundering.

In one violent movement, it had knocked the ship a hundred meters across the flats, and it still continued its frenzied attack.

Cody could not see Admiral Vrehnka, and he had no intention of waiting around to learn of his fate. He saw Au-Trava drawing up closer, gesturing forcefully to him.

"Do not look back! You will fall off! Just go!"

Cody knew he was right. He was half-off the animal already. He turned his attention forward once more and through nothing but sheer muscle, edged himself back into a more secure mount.

Their flight from danger went on for another five kilometers at least before Au-Trava held up his arm and reined his Shempa to a halt.

Cody, Three-Point, and Moog drew up beside him.

"Wow, you weren't kidding about those things!" Three-Point exclaimed.

"They are very sensitive to high-pitched sounds," Au-Trava noted. "And once roused, they can be—as you see—quite destructive."

"Are we safe here?" Moog asked, still looking back towards the cloud of sand and dust behind them.

"I think so," the brother replied, adding, "But it is better to err on the side of caution. Come, we have only a half-day's journey now to Heembab. The Shempa know we are close and they will be glad to move quickly. We will make no more stops."

"That sounds good to me," Cody nodded. "Rex and the others are probably wondering whether we made it or not. And it won't be long before the main Separatist ship sends down someone to find their Admiral. Or what's left of him."

"I hate to point this out, Commander," Moog began, sounding almost afraid to speak, as if his words might fulfill the possibility he was about to utter. "But there might be other Separatist ships out looking for us. What if they go to the Monastica?"

Cody had been thinking—and worrying—about the same thing, but he maintained a calm countenance. "Rex will know how to handle it."

* * *

" _Meet me at the source spring an hour after sunrise."_

Yes, that was what the Doma had told him last night as she'd left him at his quarters. He could have decided to go change into something dry and then go back to the festivities; but instead, he'd realized that he did not want to so soon forget the events that had just transpired. Going back to the pavilion—while it would mean seeing the Doma again—would also chase pleasant memories straight from his mind. And he wanted to indulge those memories, for he had no guarantee that any more would be in the offing. And so, he had politely announced that he would stay in for the rest of the night.

That was when Doma Maree had made her suggestion that they spend some time together the following day. Rex had agreed.

The spring. An hour after sunrise.

So, here he was.

But where was the Doma?

Rex began to consider that this might be another one of her tricks, another chance to "get even" with him. The idea did not offend him. In fact, he thought it might be interesting if that were the case.

He strolled about the spring, noting the formation of the rock, the wisps of steam rising from the water, the occasional bubble floating to the surface, and the almost tropical-looking trees surrounding the place. The source spring was not nearly as large as some of the pools along the line, but it was clearly the greatest source of water. Rex crouched down and dipped his hand in, pleasantly surprised at the comfortable temperature.

"Good morning, Captain."

Rex stood up quickly, turning to see Maree behind him.

"A precarious position, after last night, don't you think?" she said, and Rex did not know if she were teasing or threatening him.

He regarded her with a raised brow. "What, you mean us being out here together?"

"No, I mean you being so close to the water's edge, and me being able to sneak up behind you without you having any idea," she replied.

Now, Rex grinned. "I thought maybe you wanted to meet here so we could go for a _real_ swim, both of us."

"Now, _that_ would be inappropriate, especially as I just finished morning prayer," she replied, returning his smile and adding with a quip, "And far too tempting." She took a few steps back, and Rex followed her. "I only wanted to meet you here, because I knew you were familiar with this location, and it is an easy place to meet for where I really want to take you."

"Where's that?"

"Come with me and you'll see."

As they began walking north again along a narrow brush-lined path, Rex lamented that it was too tight for him to walk beside her, but that woe was soon put to rest when she turned and reached for his hand. "Keep up."

Rex recognized a ploy when he saw one – even in non-military environments.

It was clear that he could keep up with her – at least if they did not graduate from walking to running, and there was no chance of him wandering astray and losing his way.

No, the Doma had taken his hand because she wanted to. She wanted some form of contact with him; and being a religious sister, this was probably the most she could offer without risking the temptation of which she had spoken.

But Rex did not mind that this was the limit of her overtures. Or more accurately, while part of him desired the increased physical closeness of a progressing relationship, the greater part of him—the part that valued honor and decency above self-indulgence—was content that Maree gave him what she could in the way of friendship.

For friendship was the only possible outcome.

He knew that.

 _Damn it, he knew that!_

But as his intellect waved that fact in front of his face, his heart was starting to suggest otherwise. And what made the situation all the more confusing was that it was the same heart that would never be easy with the idea of separating a holy woman from her vows; it was the same heart that told him relentlessly that his own path lay along the course of the Grand Army, that his first and greatest allegiance was to the Republic – although he could not deny it was slowly shifting from the lofty and complicated halls of government to the more direct and earthy pathways of General Skywalker.

" _General Skywalker,"_ Rex mused, as he continued on towards the surprise destination. _"What would he think? He'd think I was getting distracted."_ It was a simple answer, one that Rex could use to bolster his own reconciliation with the inevitable—and likely not too distant—end of the burgeoning concupiscence of the past few days.

But it was also an answer that Rex did not necessarily believe to be true; in fact, there was a perfectly good chance that the general's advice would be far from condemning. The captain had begun lately to think that his Jedi General was hiding a great secret of his own, an attachment that went far beyond the injunctions imposed by the Jedi. He had no proof of his suspicions; only an observant eye and a penchant for noticing details that others might easily overlook. And he kept his thoughts on the matter to himself, not even floating them with Cody; for if Rex were right, and word ever got back to the Jedi Council, that could mean trouble for General Skywalker. And the last thing Rex wanted was a new general. He'd become spoiled working for Skywalker, and he felt no shame in acknowledging that fact.

"Here we are."

The Doma's voice shook Rex out of his own thoughts. He returned his attention to the moment and noticed that they had come to the end of the path where it emerged into a sort of open steppe. Directly in front of them, about thirty meters away, stood a stunning wood and sandstone structure. Palm-like trees grew sparsely around it, and a high stone wall could be seen in the back.

"What's this?" Rex asked.

"This is my residence," Maree replied.

"It's nice."

"Come. We'll go inside. They're expecting us," she said, starting across the brush-dotted desert garden.

"Who?" Rex asked, wondering what he was walking into and hoping it wasn't an attempt to proselytize him. For while he could respect the Doma's views, passing the morning being preached to was not his idea of how he wanted to spend time with her.

"My housekeepers," Maree replied. "They've prepared the morning meal for us. I thought you might like to join me." A pause. "And then we can go pay a visit to Kix. I believe he is now the only one still in the healing rooms."

Rex was almost ashamed of himself for thinking she might try convert him – but then again, she _had_ threatened to do that very thing, even if she had been speaking in jest. Still, the smidgen of shame he felt melted quickly in the warmth of the innocent and thoughtful gesture of wanting to have him to her home for breakfast.

"That all sounds great," he accepted, noticing that she was still holding his hand.

And he liked it very much.

"Wonderful," Maree said joyfully. "I hope you're hungry. Sister Marsta is an excellent cook."

* * *

His comm-band was useless, damaged in the mayhem of the beast's attack.

The chaos had only ceased less than thirty minutes ago when the creature had slithered back underground; and who knew if it would resurface and rampage again?

Dushanak Vrehnka could hardly be called a coward; but he was also not a fool. The moment the ground had begun to shake, he'd fled. Not that he had been able to tell which direction, if any, was safe. He'd just ran and taken his chances. As it turned out, he'd taken the proper chance and run in the right direction. As his ship got knocked about and his droids were smashed or mired in the beast's trailing muck, he'd come away with nothing worse than a few cuts and bruises and a wrecked communicator.

He now trudged across the flats towards his a-keel ship, hoping that its comm systems were still intact. As he approached, several of his own Copian officers and crewmen were already coming out to meet him.

Seeing his flight officer, he demanded, " _Dukna_ , status report!"

"Admiral, the ship is no longer flyable, but we have already contacted the _Qrorinar_ , and they are sending a rescue shuttle," the dukna replied. The _Qrorinar_ was the parent ship, the Dreadnaught.

"Good," Vrehnka huffed. "Now that we know they're here, I won't stop until we find them."

"Admiral, if they were headed to the city, it's going to make it very difficult to find them," the dukna pointed out.

"If I have to go door-to-door and kill every resident of that city, take my word, those clones will not escape me," came the chilling response – except that to a Copian, it was not so chilling. In fact, it was business as usual.

And Admiral Vrehnka meant every word of it.

* * *

"I have to say, that was delicious," Rex said, pushing back from the table and squashing the urge to pat his stomach in contentment. Instead, he sat ramrod straight—as he always did, unless injury prevented it—and breathed in long and deep, as if marking the conclusion of the meal.

"You have a healthy appetite," Maree noted, amused. "I've never seen anyone eat so much."

Rex took it in stride. "All due to Sister Marsta. She's quite a chef."

"Yes, she's very good. She's been cooking for me for—a very long time," the Doma replied, appearing to amend her choice of words mid-sentence.

But Rex did not notice. "So, how many servants do you have?"

"I do not consider them servants, Captain," Maree corrected. "They are members of my household staff, and they are all brothers and sisters. Marsta has two assistants in the kitchen. I have a housemaid, a craftsman, and my personal assistant, Nova Merika, whom you have already met. There are two gardeners."

"Well, it's all very nice," Rex stated, getting to his feet. The table where they had taken breakfast was on a small raised pavilion set just off the back of the residence. "Will you show me the garden?"

Doma Maree nodded as she rose from her chair. "Of course."

For the next hour, she took him through the garden, pointing out this flower or that beetle, this watering system and that fruit tree. And because Rex was admittedly an information glut, he soaked up every detail not only of the garden, but of his hostess.

Maree was tall, though not quite as tall as he was. When she walked, there was a fluid grace to her movements that Rex imagined was the result of many hours spent developing and refining the calm and holy persona that he had first seen in the examining room on the day of their arrival. Although he had initially viewed that smoothness as a sort of cool, superior detachment, he now recognized it for what it really was: the Doma took her task of discerning illness and injury very seriously, and she treated such situations with the sort of respect that such a profound gift merited.

She was so very different from the Jedi women he'd met.

Jedi women – and men, for that matter – were not holy. They were not pious. They were respectful, perhaps even reverential, of the Force and the power associated with it. They knew the power of the good, and they knew well enough to eschew the lure and ultimate destruction of the Dark Side.

But they were not holy. If they believed in a power or powers beyond the Force, Rex had never heard them speak of any such thing; but then again, he had no place in such discussions. They made him feel uncomfortable and out of his league. In fact, even discussion of the Force often put him on edge. The first time he'd seen a Jedi use the Force in battle, he'd been admittedly shaken to see such incredible power wielded by a simple sentient being. Now, he'd grown used to it, even grateful for it. But seeing it in action in the heat of a fight in order to save lives and gain victory – that was not the same as having a philosophical discussion about its origins and the tenets of its existence. Rex had avoided those discussions with the same vehemence with which he'd avoided women. There was simply no room in war for either one, despite his curiosity about both.

Until now.

And only because he was in a forced pause from the war. Once the pause was over, everything that had happened here, that was happening now, would fritter away just like the wind-blown sand.

He didn't like that thought. He didn't like it all.

He found himself staring at her and feeling admiration for the fact that, unlike the Jedi, she faithfully held onto the idea of a creator, a singular, all-powerful being who was active in her life and the lives of all creation. It was a belief he could never share with her, but that did not lessen his esteem for her.

And he did not want to forget her or the growing comfort of this oasis in the desert – a comfort he had only recently feared his men were growing _too comfortable_ with!

In fact, being in the walled garden behind the Doma's residence, Rex felt he was in an oasis within an oasis, a place where he didn't have to worry about little children following, his brothers watching and assessing, the rest of the brothers and sisters wondering . . .

"And then we use these in the Muede Elixer. You had some when you first came in. It was the—Captain? Are you listening? Is something wrong?"

Doma Maree had turned and was now staring at him as he stared back.

"No, nothing's wrong," he said, trying to figure out what, if anything, he wanted to tell her.

She regarded him knowingly. "You are a terrible liar, Captain. I think you must be the most rule-bound, obedient soldier in the entire Army. I don't think you could pull off a deception if your life depended on it."

This charge lightened his spirits and returned his thoughts to the more pleasant moment at hand. "You can say that, but you'd be wrong. Just ask Echo and Fives about our _inspection_ visit to the Rishi Moon. We ran into a lot of Separatist trouble, and I lied out my ass—sorry—I was very deceptive. But it worked. I guarantee you, my men will tell you that I'm not always good at, uh, following the rules."

"So, you break the rules."

"I follow my commanding general," Rex replied. "He's never led us wrong."

"Your Jedi General?"

"General Skywalker."

Maree nodded. "You've mentioned him a few times. I get the impression you think very highly of him."

"He's the greatest general in the GAR," Rex replied with conviction.

"That's high praise," Maree stated. "Coming from you, I think it must be true."

"I wish the Jedi Council saw it that way," came the cool reply.

Maree could hear the hint of disdain in his voice. "Do they not share your opinion of him?"

"They still haven't made him a member of the Council," Rex said. "I don't know why. I don't get involved in Jedi matters, but if they knew how his men felt about him, they'd treat him with more respect. Huh, if the 501st had a vote in it, every one of us would put him on the Council."

"How _do_ you all feel about him?" she asked.

Rex took a moment before answering. He'd never been asked the question before. He'd always known how much he admired and respected General Skywalker; but to put into words what he'd always shown solely through his actions deserved some circumspection.

At last, he replied, "He cares about us. As clones, as soldiers, as men. We matter to him. He's always out in front. He's about as unorthodox as a man can be, but the only ones who seem to care about that are the Jedi Council. He does what's necessary to get the job done, and he doesn't look at his men as expendable." He actually felt good saying the words for someone else to hear, someone who was interested in listening, who had no preconceived ideas about who General Skywalker was. "He grieves with us when we lose a man. He visits the injured in the med-bays. He's even gone to the clone medical stations several times to see some of the more seriously injured." He paused. "He's tough on us. He demands a lot, but we're all willing to give everything we have for him, because we know he always has our backs."

"He sounds amazing," Maree said. "You're fortunate to have him. And I'm sure he realizes how fortunate he is to have you."

He was surprised when she reached up and caressed his cheek. He hadn't realized how much of his emotion had been seeping through as he'd explained his feelings towards his general. He usually did a rock-solid job of keeping his sensitivities well-hidden.

His instinctive response to such an intimate gesture was to bring his hands to her waist; and when he did so, she flummoxed him again by stretching up to place a kiss on his cheek.

As she drew back, she said, "Shall we go visit Kix?"

Rex didn't answer her question. Instead, he said with a beautiful, soft smile, "Well, you're the first woman I've ever kissed – or who's kissed me."

Maree winked. "Ah, well, a little peck like that hardly counts."

Rex was sincere. "It did, to me."

Maree was enchanted with his honesty and complete lack of wiles. But she knew the enchantment was almost over. The clones' rescue could not be far off now. "Will you offer me your arm again?"

"Of course," Rex replied, doing so.

As they began walking back towards the residence, the Doma continued the discussion. "I believe it may be possible, Captain, that one day after the war has ended, your general will give you your freedom, and you will find happiness in whatever form you seek."

"General Skywalker can't give me my freedom," Rex replied. "The Senate would have to vote to release us." A pause, and then he admitted, "Besides, I'm happy with things as they are, being in the 501st, serving under the general."

"That may be so, but would you really be content to go through the rest of your life with only that little kiss on the cheek?" she challenged.

Rex chuckled. "I didn't say that. But . . . when you're trying to stay alive, you're not thinking about those other things." He laughed a bit more as a thought came into his head. "If I did think about them, there might end up being a bunch of little Rexes running around. How's that for a scary thought?"

"Terrifying," she replied. "And wonderful. Rex."

* * *

 _ **Note: So, last time I said there was no romance. I guess I should have been a bit more precise. There's no sexual scenes, and after they leave Bertegad, the focus of the story moves in an entirely different direction and focuses just on the boys until the end.**_

 _ **Rex having no sexual experience. Well, I tried to explain this in an earlier chapter that the 501st guys are a bit elitist on one hand, and just too damned busy fighting, on the other. They consider themselves too good for a hookup, and war doesn't allow them to find and establish a relationship with too many honest, decent women. After all, Rex is, what 11 physical years old at the time of this story, and he's spent the first 10 years of his life on Kamino. When would he have had the time? Just suspend disbelief, please :-)**_

 _ **"Little Rexes running around." Yes, DIRECT rip-off from Watership Down. "Lots of little Bigwigs running around, Hazel! Think of that and tremble."**_

 _ **Lastly, next chapter, all hell breaks loose, and I'm having to do some serious editing. I was in such a hurry to write it the first time around way back when that it really reads like a piece of rubbish - all action and no thought. I know some folks like that kind of writing, but not me!**_


	27. Chapter 27

**_Dear Reader, Thanks again to my reviewers! I know I'm posting kind of fast, but I have this burning desire to just get this stuff up on the site, so I'm editing like a maniac! A little change from last time: I said this would be the chapter where all hell breaks loose, but it ended up being such a LONG chapter, that I broke it down in multiple parts. This continues the buildup. Note: the whole part in the Losla stables owes itself to my passion for horses. As I was reading it during editing, I thought, "Wow, this is a weird thing to put into the story." But turns out that I really like it. I hope you do, too! Peace, CS_**

Chapter 27 Trees Before the Tempest

" _I don't know how to love him,  
what to do, how to move him.  
I don't know how to take this.  
I don't see why he moves me.  
He's a man. He's just a man."_

 _I Don't Know How to Love Him  
_ \- from Jesus Christ Superstar

* * *

"Well, this is a change, catching you alone," Rex remarked as he and Doma Maree entered Kix's room.

From his bed, where he was propped up with pillows and looking well on his way to being completely healed, Kix flashed the somewhat meek smile that was one of his trademarks. "You know I love them, Captain, I do. They're my brothers and my squad-mates, but . . . it _is_ true what they say about too much of a good thing."

Rex approached the bed and nodded his understanding. "But don't forget . . . those three stayed with you almost every second. They took turns or were all in here together. Don't be too hard on them now."

The Doma joined him beside the bed and placed her hand on Kix's forehead then, drawing down the sheet, over the bandaged wound site. Both Kix and Rex awaited her prognosis.

Her smile was reassuring. "I think you will be able to get up and move around in a few days. But only a little bit at first. The healing is progressing as it should be."

Kix was pleased. "It'll be nice to get out of this bed."

There was a moment of strangely contented silence during which Kix could not help but feel that he was missing something. He looked at his two companions.

Rex was still Rex, his captain: steady, solid, serious, just as he had always known him. But there was something new there . . . a glint of something behind the grave exterior. As for the Doma, he did not really know her but for her visits the last two days after he'd regained consciousness. He had come to look forward to seeing her, for she had a calming, soothing presence. Kix might have considered that it was almost an ability to pacify a restless spirit . . .

 _Was that it? Was that what he was sensing in the air?_

Kix focused his gaze on his captain then the Doma, then the captain once more.

He certainly would never have called Rex "restless", but there had always been something high-strung about him, a certain way of thinking that was tightly wound about a very narrow definition of what was right and what was wrong – at least, in the warrior sense. Kix had observed the evolution of his captain's character and manner over the months since being assigned to serve under him; but the one thing that had never changed was Rex's absolute certainty that, whatever course of action he might choose—no matter how absurd—it was the most reasonable and correct option. His rigidity was not in choosing which way to go, but in sticking to that path once chosen.

So what Kix was sensing now was not only interesting but amusing. Was it possible—by the Force—was it at all possible that his captain had suddenly grown . . . mellow? Fek and all, he hoped not.

When it became clear that neither of his companions was going to end the silence, he began to wonder if he should even attempt it; but then the cavalry arrived to end the awkwardness.

Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch entered the room.

"Looks like we're just in time to join the party," Hardcase boomed, and Jesse elbowed him in the ribs to remind him that this was still a hospital, even if Kix were now awake and gaining strength daily.

Rex crossed his arms and faced them. "I was just telling Kix how unusual it was that we found him here alone. How many times has he had to throw you all out?"

"Only five or six," Pitch grinned.

"Not true," Kix protested. "Two or three, tops."

"The other times, we left on our own," Jesse completed the picture. He walked to the window and leaned against the wall beside it. "We're just being good squad-mates."

"You _are_ good squad-mates," Kix conceded. "The best."

Seeing that Kix was now surrounded by friends—probably more than he truly wanted at that moment—Rex looked to Maree.

"Looks like he's in good hands," he said. "I think you said there was something you wanted to show me."

"Indeed, there is," Maree replied. She turned to the four members of Saber Squad. "Have a good day, gentlemen. Kix, I will look in on you again this evening."

The moment the captain and the Doma had left the room, Kix focused his attention like a laser. "What's going on between them?"

"What do you mean?" Hardcase asked. "Nothing."

Kix was incredulous. "You can't really be that dense, Hardcase. There's something going on there."

"Wait, you've been out cold for over a week, but you think you can tell from just a few minutes that there's some kind of . . . ya-ta-ta between the captain and Doma Maree? Kix, you're still delirious," Hardcase teased.

"Yeah, I've been unconscious for a week and I can _still_ see more than you, Hardcase," Kix shot back.

"Ya-ta-ta?" This from Pitch.

"Regardless, it's none of our concern," Jesse pointed out. "If you don't want to get your ears chewed off, don't get in the captain's business."

"So, you see it, too," Kix supposed.

Jesse held up a hand. "I'm not commenting on it, Kix. I'm not getting involved. The captain's business is his own. Now, stop being such a gossip."

That moniker effectively shut down Kix's line of questioning.

"Besides," Jesse went on, not wanting to be at odds with his brother first thing out the gate after so many days of uncertainty, "There are more important things for you to focus on: like getting up out of this bed and out of this hospital. You need to be fully recovered when Top comes back, or he'll have our asses for lunch."

"He should already be back with the fleet by now," Pitch added. "Two or three days ago. Shoot, I wonder if he graduated."

"Of course, he graduated!" Hardcase bellowed. "Do you think someone like Top couldn't fekking _teach_ ARC school if he wanted to? I'll bet he not only graduated, but was first in his class – just like the captain."

"The captain was _second_ in his class, Hardcase," Jesse pointed out.

"Eh, well, that doesn't count," Hardcase grumbled.

"Don't let Commander Cody hear you say that," Jesse warned.

"Why not? The commander knows it's true—"

"You're going to get us kicked out of here if you don't stop yelling," Pitch stated.

"Who's yelling? I'm just stating an opinion."

Kix smiled and relaxed. Now, _these_ were his brothers.

* * *

"These are the Losla stables."

"Yeah, I can see that." Rex stopped on the threshold. "You weren't planning for us to go out on a ride, were you?"

"Do you know how to ride?"

"Yes," Rex replied. "I've never been on one of these, but I've ridden something similar."

"Then perhaps some other time, we can go for a ride," Maree began, "But this time, I brought you here for a different reason."

Rex sighed his relief. He might know how to ride, but he also knew what parts of his anatomy would be sore for days afterwards. "So, what did you want to show me?"

"One of the mares is going to foal," she replied. "Sometime in the next hour, I would guess. I could feel it when I came to see her this morning."

"But we were together this morning."

"I came here before morning prayer."

Rex was starting to think the life of a Vervien Sister was every bit as rigorous as that of a clone. "Going to foal . . . you mean she's going to give birth."

"Yes," Maree replied. "It's one of the most beautiful, amazing things to watch. I try to be present for every birth for all the Monastica's animals. It's not always possible, but I do my best." She paused. "I wanted to share this with you."

Rex was dumbfounded. This was probably the strangest request, the most bizarre overture of friendship he'd ever experienced. But he dared not refuse her. Clearly, the birth of these animals was of great importance to her; and after what he'd seen in the Taber at the Finirest, it came as no surprise.

"Yes, of course," he said, mustering what enthusiasm he could.

"Splendid!" She took his hand and led him inside the stables, coming to a stall about halfway down the hall. Here two men were already inside with the mother-to-be. The mare was lying on her side with the massive ribcage heaving.

"She's already started, Doma!" one of the brothers announced excitedly. "We weren't sure you were going to make it."

Maree moved forward and crouched down beside the animal. She placed her hand on the distended belly and began speaking in a foreign tongue – it was the same language as that used in the Taber ceremonies, infused with a song-like quality, lilting and lulling.

Rex stood just inside the stall door, wondering what in the universe he was doing here, except that he would have agreed to just about anything in order to spend time with the Doma. But when a gush of amniotic fluid suddenly burst from the ruptured sac, he took a step back into the doorway. The appearance of two spindly hooved legs was the final touch to his already lurching stomach. He bolted out into the corridor, hunched over the nearest bucket, and used every muscle, every ounce of mind over matter to hold down what was threatening to come up.

Maree had seen his hasty exit, but she remained where she was. She felt badly for him in a way; but she trusted he would be alright. Clearly, sharing the beauty of birth had not been the best of ideas. Nearly thirty minutes had passed before the mare had expelled all but the hind legs, but now was a resting time as blood went from mother to baby. At this juncture, Maree got up and went to find Rex.

He was outside the stable, sitting on a stone bench beside a fresh water trough. He still looked flushed.

Maree approached him with a loving, pitying laugh. "Oh, Rex, I'm sorry." She dipped her hands into the cool water and pat his cheeks and forehead. "You look terrible." That was most certainly a lie. The heightened color in his face made him look all the more attractive, even rugged, in her eyes. "I didn't think it would make you squeamish."

"I've seen all sorts of . . . gore on the battlefield and in the field hospitals," Rex explained. "I've been covered in the blood of my own men. But I guess in the heat of battle . . . " He stumbled through his explanation, searching for the right words. "Maybe it never had a chance to register, because it never made me . . . it never made me want to heave my guts." A pause. "I just barely managed to hold it together in there."

"Oh my . . . Rex, please forgive me." She didn't sound as sorry as she did amused, but Rex was willing to forget that as she dipped her hands once again and cooled his face.

Her touch was so soft . . .

Without conscious thought, he reached up, took one of her hands in his own, and kissed her palm, letting his lips linger against the cool, wet skin a moment before turning his cheek into her caress.

Maree stood looking down at him with an affection that was perhaps not so pure as she would have liked. What she felt for him and this spontaneous display of his own helplessness in the face of feelings with which he was unfamiliar, rustled the leaves in her heart, blowing away some of the long years of moldy routine that had cluttered the depths of her faithfulness.

"Rex," she said, her voice little more than a whisper but containing a power Rex could not imagine resisting.

When he looked up at her, she found much to love in the amber eyes that, though shared with his brothers, were altogether different, a mirror to his soul. And it was that soul that captivated her.

"Come back inside with me."

Those words—not at all what Rex had hoped to hear—broke the spell for both of them.

"I can't," Rex refused. "I'm just starting to feel better. If I go back in there—"

"Trust me. It's just about over. There's nothing else to make you feel . . . like you're going to _heave your guts._ "

Rex drew in a deep breath, and when the Doma took his hands and drew him to his feet, he went with her, though unwillingly. At the entrance to the stall, he hesitated and would only go to the threshold.

"I'll look on from here," he insisted.

But it was as the Doma had said. The baby was fully out now, the mother had stomped the umbilical cord in two, and was nuzzling the newborn as it lay in the straw. Rex decided he could manage a step closer. Maree had already gone over to check on both baby and mother.

"Another successful birth, a healthy colt," she said with a smile of genuine, unfettered joy. She looked to Rex. "What shall we name him?"

Rex normally would have shied away from such a question; what part did he have in naming this animal? The Doma including him in the decision was silly. But for reasons even he himself could not comprehend, he answered right away and without a hint of derision. "Vod."

"Vod?"

"It's Mandalorian for brother."

Maree smiled. "Vod it is. Come closer and see him. He'll be standing very soon."

Rex came a few steps closer, seeing that what had appeared as a coat of dark hair was really still the remnants of afterbirth. Despite this discovery, he managed to keep the contents of his stomach _in his stomach._

Until the mare decided it was time to clean off her progeny; and like any good Losla mother, the best way to do that was to consume the mess—

"I think that's enough—" Rex choked, but this time Maree was there to escort him out into the sunshine.

"Do you need something to settle your stomach?" she asked, guiding him back to the stone bench.

"No, just . . . give me a few minutes."

She sat down beside him, pat his leg, and laughed. "You _are_ a wonder, Captain."

"I know, I know," he joked feebly, then after a few seconds, "What? No more _Rex_? Did this episode make me lose that privilege?"

"Not at all, _Rex_." She leaned forward and looked back at him. "But you've yet to call me Maree."

That was the truth, and he would not try to find a way around it. She believed him to be honest, and so he was. "It still doesn't feel right. Hearing you call me Rex is . . . acceptable. But I still . . . I still feel like you're . . . you're in a position that . . . demands greater respect."

"I understand." And she did. She recalled how long it had taken for Au-Mikiel, even as head of the Austeniens, to address her by her name without her title. As a religious leader, she had come to expect a certain degree of formality from those with whom she dealt. But she had never expected to be dealing with someone like the man beside her now.

After a few seconds, Rex spoke again. "But there is something I'd like to do, something I'd like to see."

"What is that?"

"I'd like to go to the Taber," he replied. "I want to see you walk across the floor."

Maree smiled. "You want to see the animals come to life."

"As long as they can't get out of there and cause any harm . . . or give birth in front of me."

"I can assure you, neither of those things will happen," Maree smiled. She got to her feet, and Rex stood up beside her.

"I think I might need _your_ arm this time," he jested.

"I would be happy of it." She held out her arm.

"And one more thing," Rex said, as they began walking. "You won't tell my men about this, will you?"

"Not a word," Maree replied, and even though she knew he was referring to his failure at the birthing, she added with meaning, "Not about _any_ of it."

* * *

Fels Au-Gehen looked out the window of his office.

"Where is she?" he asked anxiously, speaking only to himself, for there was no one else in the room. Then he returned to pacing.

He had spent the entire morning vacillating between praying and fretting.

Last night, he had heard the most scandalous tale; and while he might have considered some of the details to be exaggerated, he knew the main points were true, for he had seen some things for himself.

He had been in the pavilion last night when the clones had arrived and completely debased the event by drawing the attention of every girl, young lady, and woman in the place – including the ni-Doma! – taking turns with them out the floor, dancing with an abandon that was better suited to the bawdy halls of Heembab and Gonow than the holy ground of the Monastica.

True, the young girls were always foolish, but the presence of the clones had made them bold, robbed them of their dignity as young ladies, and made them forward, aggressive things competing for the attention of men who should have known better than to lavish such attention on young, love-struck girls.

And then there had been the one—the one they all called the story-teller (Au-Gehen did not know his real name, nor did he care to know it), who had invited Yusani to dance, building the little girl's hopes and making her dream that someday, somewhere there just might be a prince waiting for her. Or at least a soldier. Thoughtless, thoughtless gesture!

But these infractions were but as specks of dust compared to the mountain that was the Doma's own indiscretions with the soldiers' captain. _She_ had asked _him_ to dance! And if that had not been shameful enough, no, she'd gone off alone with him for a walk in the darkness, prompting the children to follow like voyeurs, eager to catch their spiritual guide giving in to temptation. She had led the children on a chase. She had pushed him into the water. They had been seen walking _arm in arm_. It was all the children and the girls had been talking about this morning. And it was hardly becoming of a Vervien to be the center of such gossip.

Clearly, the Doma had been enraptured by this man, and the rules of the Monastica itself were being threatened by these interlopers.

Au-Gehen had hoped that the Me'Ente Loge Festival would have refocused the Doma's attention on the serious matter of being the First Servant. He'd hoped that everyone's attention would be redirected towards matters holy and pure.

But quite the opposite had happened.

If things continued on this way, both religious orders could collapse into decadency, for he knew how easily people fell to evil inclinations.

And so he had sent for Sister So'Nodor. She, better than anyone else, understood the importance of protecting the children from the sinister forces of darkness.

Now, as he waited for her arrival, his thoughts were going in circles, and he did not like the direction they were taking him.

As he passed by the window, he saw movement outside. It was So'Nodor. Several seconds later, a knock came at the door. He let her in and closed the door behind her.

"Sister, the very things we have feared are coming to pass," he began. No civilities, no pleasantries. This was too serious a matter to drape behind courtesy.

"I had no question why you were summoning me," So'Nodor said with a sigh. "Not after last night."

"Even the Doma has fallen victim to the charms of these men, to the newness they present," Au-Gehen stated, his voice rife with alarm and sadness. "Evil is upon us."

"The clones themselves are not evil," So'Nodor pointed out. "But they bring with them a lack of wisdom and judgment that can only be detrimental to our way of life."

"Whether they are evil themselves or mere instruments of evil, the result is the same," Au-Gehen replied."They have enchanted everyone, and their influence can end up destroying all that we have worked for in the name of the Creator."

"Will they not be leaving soon?"

"No one can say that for sure. We do not even know if Au-Trava made it to Heembab. But we do know that the Separatists came here looking for them, and if they come again and find them, we will all be in danger."

So'Nodor gave a heavy, almost hopeless sigh. "I can try talking to the Doma again. Or perhaps we can prevail on Au-Mikiel."

"The Doma will not listen," Au-Gehen protested. "She is beguiled by their captain. Fels Au-Mikiel thinks they are heroes. He will not ask them to moderate their behavior."

"Then all we can do is wait until they are rescued by the Republic."

Au-Gehen eyed her closely, trying to discern if her concern was as great as his, if her desperation was equal to his own. "There is another option." He went to his desk and drew out the communicator the Separatist admiral had given him. "We can turn them over to the Separatists."

In truth, he had made that decision even before So'Nodor had come to his room. But he needed her agreement to bolster his own wavering conviction.

"They would become prisoners of war," So'Nodor pointed out. "Or casualties." A pause. "Is it within our morality to hand over these men to what we know will be, at the very least, captivity? At the worst, death."

"To preserve our way of life . . . yes," Au-Gehen replied. "Do we put our devotion to the Creator first? Or these men?"

So'Nodor was silent for a long time. At last, she asked, "Have you prayed about it?"

"I have."

"And has the Creator shown you a sign?"

He held up the communicator. "This is his sign. He put it within my ability to remove this scourge. You say the clones themselves are not evil, and you may be correct. But the fact remains that they must be removed – and as soon as possible. We cannot wait in the hopes that their own fleet will come for them soon. We do not know that."

"I concur," So'Nodor replied.

Au-Gehen was somewhat surprised by her ready acceptance. He cleared his throat to buy some time while deciding what to say next.

"So, we are in agreement then, that we should turn them over to the Separatists," he said as a manner of confirmation.

"It is agreed."

Now that the decision had been made, Au-Gehen felt the agitation and nervous anxiety leave his body. The hard part was over. Now, the only question that remained was to how to effect the clones' removal without any fighting or bloodshed. The clones would not agree to be handed over, and the Doma and Au-Mikiel certainly would not permit them to be placed in the hands of the enemy.

There had to be some way to deliver them to the Separatists, some way to remove the parasite, the temptation, without so great a disruption that it would end up destroying both orders anyways.

This was the dilemma.

And Au-Gehen and So'Nodor needed to find a resolution quickly.

* * *

The flowing limbs, the boundless depths beneath where he was standing beside the Doma, the appearance of figures rising towards and then retreating from the surface.

It was beyond Rex's comprehension, and he was not embarrassed to admit it.

"How do you do this?" he asked.

"It is not something I _do_ ," Maree replied. "It is something these souls recognize."

"What, you mean they recognize _you_?"

"Not exactly," she replied. "They recognize that I am their conduit. Like all creation, they, too, are anxious for the gates of eternity to open. The Creator brought them forth into this life, and he will bring them forth into the next." She crouched down and placed her palm against the floor. "All creation waits."

Rex watched as a rapid succession of animals came to the surface where the Doma's hand was pressed. A subtle glow began to spread from her palms to her fingers.

When she stood up and reached out her hand towards Rex, he instinctively took a step back.

"Are you suddenly afraid of me, Captain?" she asked.

"No, just your hand. What's that light?"

She ignored his question and reached out once again.

This time, Rex did not retreat as she placed her hand against his side. He flinched at the coolness that surged from her hand into his body, a transfer so fast and intense that it was over in a fraction of a second.

When it had passed, not only was the tenderness in his side gone, but so were the lingering feelings of queasiness from earlier that morning, the ever-present and dull ache in shoulder, and every other chronic twinge or pang that his life as a soldier had visited upon him.

"What—what did you do?" he asked.

She only smiled at him.

"You healed everything?"

"No," she deferred. "Not even the greatest among us can heal with a touch." A pause. "What you felt was the strength and the goodness of even the tiniest part of a perfected soul. Goodness has the power to . . . make you feel the way you just did, as if all the woes have been lifted, the injuries healed. Goodness makes life not just tolerable, but worth living. It is something you already possess in abundance, as I have told you. But to feel it from another, to experience its essence . . ."

Rex had no idea what to make of this explanation. "I don't know what to say."

"No words are necessary," Maree replied.

"Doma?"

Both Maree and Rex turned to see Nova Merika. Neither of them had noticed her approach.

"Yes, Merika?"

"I am just coming to remind you about the midday meal with the pilgrims."

"Ah! Is it so late already? The morning has gone by very quickly," Maree remarked.

"In one hour," Merika replied.

Maree turned to Rex. "Will you join us?"

"It would be an honor," Rex accepted. "Are all my brothers invited?"

"Of course."

"Then I'll go round them up," he grinned. "They're spread all over the place."

"I will meet you at the pavilion in one hour," she replied. "I need to spend some time first in prayer."

"More prayer?" He quipped with a wink.

"You can never spend too much time in prayer," Maree said with a wink of her own.

Rex gave a single nod. "I'll see you at the pavilion." He hesitated only a moment before heading towards the doors, smiling as he went.

What was happening to him? Here he was agreeing to all sorts of things he never would have agreed to before. Dancing in front of his brothers. Suspending his disbelief long enough to participate in spiritual observances. Asking for a garden tour. Animal birthing – sort of. A meal with religious pilgrims.

He would never have thought that such things could have brought him any kind of joy; but then, he had never had these kinds of feelings for anyone before. He wasn't even sure exactly what the feelings were; he only knew that his dislike and fear of the Doma had turned into something very different; and he savored the anticipation of seeing her. He chuckled to himself. Why, he might even consider gagging through another Losla birth if it meant he could feel her hands on his face again . . .

He entered the vestibule and had opened the door to go outside when he ran into Au-Gehen coming in.

"Oh, I'm sorry, brother," Rex apologized.

Au-Gehen regarded him with a sort of neutral curiosity.

"I am surprised to see you here, Captain," he stated. "Were you praying?"

Rex almost laughed at the idea, but he knew that would be rude and insulting. "No, no. No praying. I was with the Doma."

"Oh?"

Rex did not respond right away. He had formed the impression early on that Au-Gehen did not particularly care for him and his brothers. He wasn't sure why the brother didn't like them, and he was not of a mind to inquire. He was in a very good mood, and that gave him the fortitude to return Au-Gehen's disdain with an attempt at cordiality.

"I wanted to see the animals in the floor come alive," he admitted. "I asked her to do it."

"I see," Au-Gehen said in a nasal tone. "Were you entertained?"

"It's a very incredible thing to see," Rex replied earnestly.

"Yes."

Rex decided to try harder. These brothers and sisters were close to Maree, an important part of her life, and for that reason, it was worth it to him to be amiable in the face of Au-Gehen's frosty demeanor.

"She put her hand on the floor and then touched my side," he went on. "I'd never felt anything like it."

His heart sank as he saw that his words had the exact opposite effect of what he had hoped.

Au-Gehen appeared to be struck speechless. At length, he said, "She did that for you?"

Rex wondered if he had said something wrong. "Well . . . yes."

The brother stared at him, and there was something in that gaze that made Rex feel terribly uncomfortable. But then Au-Gehen gave what was clearly a forced smile and a nod.

"I am sure she had her reasons. Good afternoon." Then he moved passed him and went into the sanctuary.

And Rex, bemused by the encounter, continued on his way to the Seiba Tops.

* * *

"It isn't often I come before you asking something for myself. The Office of Doma exists solely to do good for others and to protect those souls that you have entrusted to me. That, I know." Maree raised her eyes towards the altar. "But Lord and Creator of All, I come to you now, asking for your help; for only you know what is in my heart. You know better than I do, the truth of my feelings for this man.

"I have sinned against you and violated your most simple rule with regard to the souls in my charge. I ask your mercy and forgiveness. But even more . . . I ask you, I beg you . . . show me the proper way to love him." Despite the heaviness of her words and tone, her heart was light. She trusted her god to show her the way, and she knew she could be fully open and honest with the deity, in that he already knew her every thought and action. "For you know that my feelings for him are . . . not what they should be, and if I continue on this way, I may abuse the power of the souls again." She paused. "Great and glorious Creator, he is a good man. You see and you know how good he is. How long has it been since you have sent someone like him across my path? I think . . . never. There is no one else like him, and I do not want to do wrong by him or by you, my god. Show me. Please, show me how to love him."

* * *

"Soldier Echo! Soldier Echo!"

Echo knew the voice before he'd even seen the caller. A broad smile came naturally as he turned around.

"Ah, Yusani," he said, hunkering down as the little girl came running gracelessly to him. He picked her up. "I knew it was my little dancing butterbur."

Beside him, Fives shook his head and grinned. _"Butterbur?"_

"Will you play?" she asked him.

"Play? Don't you have lessons today?" Echo asked.

She looked at him without understanding.

"Lessons? Classes? _School?_ "

Comprehension dawned in her face. "No school! Festabul!"

Echo warmed at this mispronunciation. "Of course, we can play."

He looked around. He and Fives had just come back from a dip in the hot springs and were just short of reaching the Seiba Tops.

"Did you come all the way here by yourself?" he asked, somewhat surprised that a little girl would be allowed to roam so freely without an adult.

Yusani nodded fervently.

"Well, then, you must really want to play with me," Echo said. "I am honored." A pause. "This is my brother, Fives."

"Fives," she repeated. "Fives, Fives, Fives, Fives." She leaned out in Echo's arms and touched her tiny—and somewhat dirty—fingers to Fives' perfectly trimmed beard. Apparently, she found something very funny about his facial hair, for it made her laugh as she continued to investigate it.

"You like this, huh?" Fives said, then he raised his eyes as her hand went to the stylized "5" tattooed just below his hairline on the right side of his forehead. He had only just gotten the thing a week before they'd left on the Pylotta mission, and he tended to forget that it was even there.

"This Five," Yusani stated.

"Yep, that's right. That's me: Fives."

"Fives play, too?"

Fives considered. He met Echo's eyes and could see his brother was wondering what the answer would be. He knew the answer Echo was expecting. Well, this time, Fives decided he would surprise his brother.

"Sure, why not?"

After all, it seemed they had all the time in the world.

They had no way of knowing that time was running out.

 _ **I think CT-782 called it with Au-Gehen from the outset! You were right!**_


	28. Chapter 28

**_Dear Reader, I don't know what's going on with the reviews. I'm getting emails that they've been posted, but they're not showing up on the site. I've emailed the admin folks and asked about it. Hopefully, they get it fixed soon! Anyhow, a note about an inconsistency. I originally have Jesse and Co. being assigned to the 501st before Rex arrives, but when I went back and read their backstory (which is coming up in the next few chapters), I noticed that I can not leave it that way. They have to come to the 501st after Rex gets there. Soooo, when you see mention of that briefly in this chapter, just know that I will make the corrections in the previous chapters._ _Please bear with me! Peace, CS_**

Chapter 28 Falling Leaves

Es war einmal ein Zinnsoldat (There was once a tin soldier)  
der wollte stark und mutig sein (who wanted to be strong and brave)  
Wenn man ihn ansah stand er grad (When one looked at him, he stood straight and tall)  
vor jedem Großen war er klein (But before the giants, he was small)

Er liebte eine Tänzerin (He loved a dancer)  
eine Figur aus Porzellan (A figure made of porcelain)  
Er wollte immer zu ihr hin (He wanted always to go to her)  
jedoch war er kein freier Mann (But he was not a free man)

Er war nur ein Spielzeug (he was only a toy)  
er war nur ein Zinnsoldat (He was only a tin soldier)

Zinnsoldat by  
Michael Cretu

* * *

When Rex got back to the Seiba Tops, he found most of his men in the midst of a make-shift sparring session of hand-to-hand combat. He was glad to see they were trying to maintain some form of fitness and training regimen, though he imagined they would be more than happy to have their workout interrupted by the idea of food and fellowship.

Rex also noticed Fels Au-Ogusta standing off to one side with Sixer, who was apparently overseeing the session. He moved to join them.

"Sixer, did you put this together?"

Sixer gave a firm nod. "I did, Captain. I thought we were all getting a little soft."

Rex chuckled. "Are you sure you're not just power hungry?"

"Well, with you and Jesse both off doing other things, someone has to bring the hammer do-oown!" As he finished the sentence, Double Barrel broke from his spar with Bounce and in a split-second, took Sixer down in a perfectly executed over-the-shoulder throw.

Sixer gave an exaggerated groan. "Was that really necessary?"

DB reached out a hand. "No, but it sure was fun."

"Why don't you just stick to being a sniper," Sixer suggested, accepting his hand and getting to his feet.

"A man's got to have more than one outlet for his energy," Double Barrel replied, then looking at Rex, "Isn't that right, Captain?"

Rex gave a satisfied nod.

"We were looking for you this morning, Sir," Sixer announced, brushing the sand from his clothes. "Fels Au-Ogusta came and invited us to some big lunch get-together. We wanted to make sure it was okay to go."

"Yes, it's fine," Rex replied. "In fact, I was coming to tell you the same thing. Doma Maree extended an invitation of all of us. So, go get cleaned up and be back out here in five."

The troopers were more than happy to comply. They scurried off to their individual quarters, leaving Rex alone with Au-Ogusta.

"You were with the Doma this morning?" the brother asked.

"Yes." Rex did nothing to betray the joy that statement roused in him. "She invited me for breakfast at her residence."

Au-Ogusta looked pleased. "The Doma's residence is beautiful. I know she takes great pride in the gardens."

"Yes, she does. I think she showed me every plant in the place," Rex jested. "We went to see Kix after that. He's doing much better. I don't know how to say how grateful I am for that." He paused thoughtfully. "Kix is probably the one soldier the 501st can least afford to lose."

"Really?" The brother looked mildly surprised. "I would not have guessed that. Is he that good a soldier?"

Rex nodded. "He's _that_ good a soldier. But there's more to it than that, and . . . well, it would take me too long to explain right now."

"Perhaps some other time."

"Yes."

Au-Ogusta returned to the original subject. "So Doma Maree invited you, then, to come to the Pilgrim's midday meal? I think you will enjoy it very much."

"I hope so," Rex answered. "The last time she invited me to something, it was, uh . . . well, let's just say it was interesting."

Ogusta was intrigued. "What was it?"

Rex felt the grin spreading across his face. "It was the birth of a Losla."

"A birth?" Ogusta sounded as enchanted by the idea as Maree had been. "How thrilling that must have been for you. There is little I more enjoy than seeing new life come into the world. How fortunate for you to have been there."

Rex cleared his throat. "Fortunate that I didn't toss my breakfast is more like it."

"Toss your breakfast?"

"I, uh . . . my stomach wasn't too agreeable with the whole thing," Rex said, and surprisingly, he didn't feel the least bit sheepish or ashamed admitting it to Ogusta.

Now, his men would have been a different story altogether . . .

"Ah, I understand." The brother gulped down a snicker, not wanting to be rude at the captain's expense. "I suppose not everyone would want to see such a thing."

"But she made up for it," Rex went on. "We went into the Taber and she showed me the animals coming alive again. I admit, I don't understand that at all, but it's fascinating to see."

"To the brothers and sisters, as well," Ogusta agreed. "We have been seeing it for many years, and it never fails to move us."

"That I believe," Rex stated, then with probing caution, he mentioned as nonchalantly as possible, "She also did this thing where she put her hand on the floor and then touched it to my side where I'd been injured. It felt like everything—every pain just went away. And it hasn't come back."

He waited to see how Ogusta would respond.

And although the expression on the brother's face was much better moderated than Au-Gehen's had been, Rex could clearly see that this announcement had caused some disturbance in the brother's peace-of-mind.

"I got that same reaction when I told Brother Au-Gehen," Rex frowned, perplexed. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You told Fels Au-Gehen?"

"Yes. I ran into him as I was coming out of the Taber," Rex replied.

The brother looked troubled, dismayed. "No, Captain, you did nothing wrong," Ogusta said. "It is what the Doma did that is . . . troubling." A pause. "I would never question the Doma's wisdom, but . . . taking spirit energy from the souls is . . . forbidden."

Rex felt the blood drain from his face. "Forbidden?"

"Yes."

"But why?" Rex asked. "And why would Doma Maree do something that's forbidden?"

"Those are questions I am not qualified to answer," Au-Ogusta replied. "You will have to ask the Doma." He hesitated a moment before adding, "I would not speak of the matter to Au-Gehen again. He does not approve of your presence here."

"I kind of got that idea."

"Do not be concerned over it, Captain Rex," Ogusta offered. "The Doma and Fels Au-Mikiel are happy to have you here. You and your men have been our honored guests. Au-Gehen's apprehensions will not change that."

"But if he tells others that the Doma did something forbidden, that could cause problems."

Au-Ogusta looked askance at him. "The Doma has been dealing with Au-Gehen's . . . scrupulosity for many years. She will be able to handle him."

"But if she's done something she shouldn't have, then that could make him—and others—question her authority," Rex persisted.

"That will not happen," Ogusta assured him. "One transgression will not blot out years of faithful service – not in the eyes of the people, not in the eyes of the Creator."

The rest of the clones were beginning to return, and Rex dropped the subject.

But although he was no longer speaking of it, there was no banishing it from his thoughts.

He had, quite inadvertently, taken up the role of spoiler. He and his brothers had ended up in this place, certainly not of their own will; and in less than two weeks, he—singlehandedly—had caused the spiritual leader to fall into . . . well, he didn't believe in sin . . .

Even though he did believe in evil, he had trouble reconciling himself to the idea of sin. He had admitted his belief in evil when he'd told Cut Lawquane that its vanquishing was precisely the reason he was fighting.

Still, could there be evil without sin?

It was all becoming too confusing, too mind-boggling; and Rex did not consider himself to be a complicated man. He'd prided himself on his simplicity – although if he ever took a truly objective look at himself and his motivations, he would have discovered his pride was misplaced, for he was anything but _simple_.

Whatever the case – evil, sin, fate, or just circumstances and individual choices – he could not deny that Doma Maree had apparently chosen to do something _against the rules_ , and she had done it for him.

She had told him more than once of the goodness she saw in him. Now, he feared he was spoiling the goodness he saw in her. While his brothers seemed to be maintaining just the right amount of distance, he had allowed the impulsive part of his nature to venture to the forefront in an area where it clearly had no business governing. His passions were out of place in the context of a woman who was a member of a religious order.

Whatever he was feeling, it was improper under the circumstances. He had no idea how to regulate his desires to achieve that state of love of which the Doma had spoken, a state where the physical aspect was seceded for a more pure kind of union.

Damn, he wasn't even sure if what he was feeling was love. He had no experience with it, other than the brotherly love he had for his fellow clones – varying in degree with familiarity. His thoughts for the Doma were decidedly of a different nature.

A nature whose acquaintance he'd never even contemplated until only a few days ago.

He might have been willing to live with the uncertainty and the confusion, had he not discovered that she had been disobedient on his account.

That was unacceptable.

Rex could never develop the calluses of indifference that allowed him to be the catalyst that led to a good person's downfall.

But was it possible for him to go back? Would he be able to retract what he'd already done, unfeel what was churning inside him?

He would have to find a way. There was no other option.

* * *

As far as gatherings went, it was great fun.

Or it would have been, had Rex not been so preoccupied.

He sat with his men at a long wooden table with bench seats. Even Puzzle, Keeper, and Gernot were well enough that they could venture out – the former two with assistance from their brothers. Around them, thousands of pilgrims were partaking of the meal, served exclusively by the Verviens and Austeniens.

Even the Doma had donned an apron and was busily shuffling hither and thither, bring food, clearing rubbish, pouring drink. She was not serving the clones' table, for which Rex was both glad and disappointed. That he wanted to be close to her and hear her voice and have the chance to maybe brush against her in passing was one part of the equation. The other part was his fear that whatever resolution he was building towards—still not fully defined in his own mind—would be completely blasted asunder if he allowed himself to indulge such thoughts.

From time to time, Maree would cast a smile or a wink as she went by. At one point, she stopped briefly and addressed the entire table. "I invited you all to attend, and I haven't been able to spend even a few minutes with you. I'm very sorry."

The rest of his men were immediately forgiving and vocally so. Rex only smiled and nodded his understanding.

As the event went on, there were games for the children in several locations, given the sheer number of people. Rex watched with satisfaction as Echo cheered for or partnered with Yusani at every event.

" _He made the smart choice,"_ the captain said inwardly. _"He gets to be a hero for a few days and make that little girl happy."_ A deep frown creased his forehead. _"I'm not going to make anyone happy, least of all, myself."_

It was almost sunset by the time the festivities ended.

From his place at the table, Rex watched the enduring scene of his men walking off on their way to the Seiba Tops, little children bouncing along behind them as if it were the most natural thing in the universe to be following in the footsteps of such grand soldiers. Echo, with Yusani riding on his shoulders and Sister Anaide strolling at his side, ostensibly to shunt the children towards the Wayward Houses. Pitch and Hardcase, arms slung over each other's shoulders, stone-cold sober and missing only the stagger of a pair of drunken sailors to complete the image. Jesse, Sixer and Sempe, listening to Zinger tell a zinger, for they burst into laughter that rang out above the sounds of the diminishing revelry.

The rest of them followed. The remaining 212th contingent: Bounce, Tip, Little Ride, and Puzzle, the former two moving slowly to accommodate the latter two, who, though mostly healed, were still recovering their strength. And from the 501st: Fives, finally seeming to want to fit in, shaking off—at least for the moment— his penchant of clinging to Echo's side. He and Double Barrel were engaged in some intense conversation that involved a lot of hand motion and looked for all intents and purposes, like they were talking about flying—that could _not_ be a good thing, Rex mused. Behind them, Ajax and Gernot silently mocked and copied their movements. And bringing up the rear, Slip and March walked with Keeper, one on each side to ensure no trouble for their recovering brother. They were the quiet ones – well, sometimes . . . er, more often than the others – and they rounded out the team.

Rex congratulated himself. He had chosen well – even if not everyone on the ship had been part of the original plan. And he conceded that Cody had chosen well, also.

And not just now but from the outset of their respective commands. Rex made no secret of the fact that he went fishing for the best. If he heard of an outstanding trooper in another unit or coming up from basic, he had no qualms about attempting to direct that individual into the 501st. It was how he'd ended up with Echo and Fives. And before them, he'd made the master find and snatched the entirety of Saber Squad straight from Kamino. That maneuver had earned him a few enemies – or at least one, in particular – but as commanding officer of the 501st, he'd done what he'd had to do. Any good commander worth his salt did the same thing. Cody did it all the time, and being of higher rank than Rex and working for the gem of the Jedi, General Kenobi, it was quite a feat to outfox the commander when it came to recruiting.

Cody had had his eye on Saber Squad. He had never mentioned it, but Rex had known. And it was perhaps a rotten thing to do to swipe them away from the commander's grasp; but the situation had been urgent – not for the 501st, but for the members of Saber Squad. If someone hadn't done something right at that moment, the GAR would have lost one of its finest troops . . .

It pained Rex no small bit that Kix was not among the men he was watching walk away ahead of him. Kix was certainly progressing well, but he was nowhere near ready to undertake an event such as this.

Rex considered that, of all of them, Kix might have been the only one, besides Cody, to whom he would have felt comfortable discussing his current predicament. No, no. He would have felt uncomfortable with everybody, even Kix, even Cody. This was a personal, private matter; and his men did not need to know how it was affecting him. Even his closest friend might find it either too humorous, too ludicrous, or too pathetic to warrant serious thought. That was one of the things Rex most admired about Cody: the commander had a well-honed, no-nonsense focus on the mission that enabled him to easily cast aside distractions without prejudice.

He got slowly to his feet.

 _This one I have to handle on my own._

"Excuse me, Captain Rex?"

Rex looked to his right to see one of the sisters standing beside him. He'd been so absorbed in his own thoughts that he had not noticed her coming to join him. He recognized her vaguely as one of the school teachers.

"I am Sister Nareen," she introduced herself. "I am a teacher. Many of my students go to see you and your soldiers after class." She laughed. "And sometimes during class."

"Yes, I thought you looked familiar," Rex replied.

"I am sure that, by now, you and your men have had quite your fill of the boys' antics; but I have a very important request, and I hope you will oblige."

Rex smiled politely. "If I can."

"I asked Sister So'Nodor—she is the Matrice of the school—I asked her several days ago if it would be alright for the soldiers to come to the school and talk to the children, tell them what it's like to be a soldier in the Grand Army of the Republic," Nareen explained. "And today, she gave me permission to ask you."

"Sister So'Nodor . . . she's close to Fels Au-Gehen, isn't she?" Rex asked.

"They work very closely together to ensure the best for the children," Nareen replied.

Rex thought for a moment. Could this invitation from So'Nodor be a sort of attempt to reach out and embrace the clones? A peace offering? After what had happened earlier with Au-Gehen, Rex saw no harm in treating it as such. To refuse might be taken as confirmation of what So'Nodor and Au-Gehen already believed: that the clones were nothing more than heathen soldiers, not worthy recipients of keeping company with the pious worshippers within the Monastica's walls.

This could very well be the opportunity for the clones to pacify the distrust of the few.

"I think it would be a wonderful idea," he replied. "Just let me know when and where."

"Would you be able to make it tomorrow just after the midday meal? The pilgrims will have be leaving tonight, and our schedule returns to normal tomorrow. I can have the children all come together in the assembly hall. Will that be acceptable, Captain?"

"Perfectly," he replied. "We'll be there."

The sister gave a slight bow and went on her way.

Now came the hard part.

In the ten minutes that passed between Nareen's departure and Maree's joining him, he tried to think of how he was going to say what was on his mind. Did he even know precisely what it was he was looking for? What outcome? Should he bother to say anything at all? In a few days, he and his men would probably be gone, and he'd never see her again. He'd never have to worry about any of this. She would be out of his life; he would be out of hers. They could carry on as if they'd never met.

" _She's right. I'm a crappy liar. I can't even lie to myself."_

But there was no more pondering it, for she was approaching him now. The time for deliberation was over.

"I'm sorry to make you wait so long, Rex," she apologized. "But I'm glad you waited."

"So am I," he replied. "Are you heading back to your residence?"

"No," she answered. "To the Taber for prayer."

Rex could not help but smile. "Of course."

"Will you join me?"

"You know I don't pray," he said.

"Then you can sit and enjoy the peace and quiet after all this noise and ruckus," she suggested.

"That sounds nice."

They began walking towards the Taber, and it took Rex a full half-kilometer of meaningless chit-chat before he found the courage to broach the only subject on his mind.

"Maree?"

"You're finally using my name." She sounded very pleased. "I take it that means you feel comfortable doing so now."

Seeing her joyful smile, it was not easy for Rex to stick with his task. This was something he did not want to bring up, but it was the only thing that mattered at the moment.

Sensing that something was bothering him, Maree asked, "Rex, is something wrong?"

He hesitated. He had been practicing what words he would use, how delicate he could be. But now that the moment was upon him, he fell back on his plain, direct manner. "When you put your hand on me in the Taber . . . was that something you weren't supposed to do?"

Whatever the Doma might have thought of this question, she reacted with equanimity. "Someone told you that?"

Rex nodded. "Is it true?"

Maree took a moment before answering. "In a manner of speaking."

"What does that mean?"

The Doma stopped walking and turned to face him. "As a keeper of souls, I have been given the responsibility for protecting the souls entrusted to me. And there are wonderful powers that come with that. The ability to commune with the souls is one of the greatest privileges imaginable. But it is forbidden to take the energy they so freely offer. That energy belongs to them and to the Creator. It is not for me to use – not for the purpose of healing, not to restore life, not to increase individual power." A sort of uncharacteristic shyness came into her manner. "When I did that for you, it wasn't for any of those reasons. But it was still wrong."

"Why _did_ you do it?"

She gave a minute grin that seemed to hide a certain embarrassment. "Pride, I suppose. I wanted to give you something that only I could give you. I wanted to share a moment with you that was just between us." She drew in a deep breath. "I had thought the Losla birthing would be a special thing, but we both know how that turned out."

As Maree spoke, Rex's feelings of remorse grew more intense.

"I see now it was a ridiculous idea from the beginning. Taking you to see the birth of an animal clearly wasn't the sort of . . . activity that engenders spiritual intimacy," Maree said with a sad smile. "We come from two very different worlds, Rex. The things that are meaningful to me . . . I had no reason to believe that they would be meaningful to you." She paused, and Rex thought she appeared to need the moment to maintain her composure. "Now that you have seen that I have my own failings, my own weaknesses, perhaps you feel I am not as . . . worthy of respect as you once did. Is that why you now feel comfortable calling me by my name?"

"No, no, Maree," Rex replied. "It's not like that at all. And I—I don't need to share a _special moment_ with you. If you wanted to give me something, you already have. Just the time we've spent together these past few days . . . that was enough." He took her hands in his and swallowed hard before speaking his next words. "You're right. We do come from different worlds, but that doesn't bother me. What scares me is . . . you did something you shouldn't have done; and you did it for me. I don't want to be the reason you do something that goes against your religion. I don't want to be the man who comes between you and your god. I couldn't live with myself if I did that."

Maree was silent.

Rex went on. "You have your vows. I have my oath to the Republic. And we both value those pledges." His voice was not as steady as he wished. "A rescue team will probably be here in a few days, and I—I don't want to leave thinking that I may have done something . . . to ruin your relationship with your god and the people you serve."

Maree stared intently at him before drawing near and initiating an embrace, which Rex returned tentatively, doing everything in his power not to succumb to how it felt to have her so close and in his arms.

"The Creator truly is amazing," she murmured into his shoulder, then pulling back and looking up at him, her eyes glistening just short of tears, she explained. "I asked him to show me the proper way to love you. I have never felt this way about another person. I needed his guidance." She smiled. "I didn't think he would use you to answer that question. But he did." A pause. "You had the courage where I did not. Your conviction is greater than my own, I am ashamed to admit."

"Don't put the laurels on my head just yet," he admonished. "I'm saying the words, because I know they're right. But what I feel in my heart . . . that's altogether something else." His arms were still around her, and he tightened his embrace. "I keep telling myself that once I leave here, it will all be over and, with the demands of war, I'll forget about all this. But I don't think I can forget. I know I don't want to forget."

Maree once again rested her cheek against his shoulder, indulging for the briefest moment, a sensation she'd not felt since she was a young girl. "I don't know the Creator's purpose in putting a man like you in my path, knowing how I would feel about you. He must have had a purpose in bringing you here."

"So, you don't regret us coming here?"

"By the powers of heaven, no." She laughed. "Remember, you didn't come here. We brought you here." She eased back and looked him in the eye. "The Creator is merciful and forgiving. Whatever lesson he means to impart, he will overlook my transgressions, if I am truly sorry for the offense. I have been loving and serving him for hundreds of years. I have followed his will for me without question. He knows I am a flawed creature. But putting you in my path was not a mistake, even if my reaction to it was."

Rex stared at her, dumbfounded. "Hundreds of years?"

Maree nodded, then she answered the unasked portion of the question. "I am over twelve hundred standard years old." She saw the struggle in his face, the shock, and the utter incomprehensibility that he found in her revelation. "Did you truly have no idea? None of the brothers or sisters told you?"

"No," he replied, unable to think to say more.

"Then again, it is not their responsibility to inform anyone of their Doma's age," she went on. "I guess I am just so used to everyone on Bertegad knowing about the long life of a Doma that I took it for granted you knew, as well; or that someone would have at least told you. But I should have told you myself."

"Is that why you look that way?" Rex managed tactlessly.

" _That way_? You'd better be careful, Captain. You're not off this planet yet," she warned playfully. "And I may be a religious sister, but I still care about looking my best for the one who created me."

"I meant that you look . . . ageless. Young and old at the same time," Rex tried to explain, thinking that he was just making a bigger mess of things. "Do all the sisters and brothers live that long?"

"No, just the Doma," Maree replied. "Again, it is a gift from the Creator. All Keepers are blessed with long life in order to fulfill their role until the gates of eternity are opened. I am not the first Doma. I doubt I will be the last."

"So, you'll . . . never die?"

"Of course, I'll die. Someday. It's not for me to know the time. It is only for me to do the task given me."

Rex was thoughtful. "Just like me and my brothers."

"Except that I know I will never be asked to do anything unjust," Maree replied.

"I hope I can say the same thing," Rex said. "I trust General Skywalker."

"I know you do," she acknowledged.

Rex sighed. "So, how do I act around you now?"

"The same way you have been," Maree replied.

He raised a skeptical brow. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I would not want you any other way," she assured him.

Rex chuckled. "Be careful what you ask for."

When she looked at him, there was still something beyond affection in her eyes. "Always."

 ** _Good man, Rex._**


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 28 Setting the Trap

" _Come closer, closer. How many lies would you ascribe to me? Am I the Prince of Lies, as you claim? I need only set the trap. Of lures, I have no need. You will come of your own accord. I need only wait."_

 _A Conversation with Satan  
Saint Blaise_

* * *

Bounce snagged a piece of fruit from the bowl in Little Ride's room. "Do you think Commander Cody and the others made it?"

"I guess we'll find out in a few days," Little Ride replied from where he had stretched out across his bed. "Being out of contact like this is for the birds."

Tip, feet kicked up and leaning back against the headboard, added, "It may be rotten as far as knowing what's going on with the commander, but it's kind of nice not to be inundated with nothing but war news all day." A pause. "Still, I can't help wondering what the battalion is doing and how our chaps are managing."

"Bounce, please try to leave me a little something," Little Ride chided, seeing his brother already looking over the bowl for another snack, even though he'd not finished the one in his hand.

"Why you don't weigh as much as a bantha is beyond me," Zinger teased. "Your nickname should be Bottomless."

"Bottomless _Pit_ ," Tip corrected. "He sure as hell isn't _bottomless_."

Bounce took it all in stride. "Well, I'm glad to know you've had occasion to take notice of my finer physical qualities, Tip."

"Well, what else is there to look at?" Tip asked in an exaggerated dramatic fashion. "The only female we see on a regular basis is Commander Tano, and she's still just a girl. Plus, if you look at her the wrong way, General Skywalker's death glare isn't far behind." He chuckled. "Personally, I like missions with General Secura. Now there's a woman with all the fixings."

"Good grief," Little Ride droned, rolling his eyes and laughing.

"Yeah, but how often do we get to go on missions with her?" Zinger lamented. "Bly's one lucky bastard."

"You can say that again," Tip agreed.

"I'll tell you what really stinks," Bounce said. "We're here with more women than we've ever been around in our entire lives, and they're all off-limits."

Zinger coughed a laugh. "Yeah, how 'bout that?"

"Not all of them are Sisters," Tip pointed out.

"Yeah, but the ones who aren't are pretty young," Bounce replied.

"Not to mention, we won't be here much longer, so there's no sense in starting anything," Little Ride said, always the voice of reason.

For the first time, Puzzle, who was sitting in the chair beside Bounce's foraging table, spoke up. "The commander would box our ears if even one of us did anything to bring dishonor on the 212th. So talk about it, laugh about it, fantasize about it, but that's the limit. Muck this up, and we'll end up on escort detail for the duration."

"He's right, you know," Zinger concurred. "The commander's a gentleman, and he expects us to be gentlemen, as well."

A brief silence followed before Bounce said with his characteristic frankness, "It's probably wrong for me to say this, but part of me doesn't want to leave this place."

"I know what you mean, brother," Tip nodded. "Part of me wants to stay; part of me wants to be back with the rest of the battalion."

"Well, there's really no choice, unless you want to be a deserter," Zinger grinned. "And we'd never let that happen. We started the war together. We're going to finish it together."

Puzzle sighed but not in a sad way. "We can only hope."

Zinger replied with feeling. "If there's one thing working alongside General Kenobi has taught us, it's that there's always hope."

* * *

"It's hopeless. The commo's aren't picking up any transmissions, no beacons, nothing." Obiwan frowned at the data feeds coming into his data pad from the team in charge of searching for any electronic sign of the missing ship. "We won't be able to find them remotely. If we're going to have any chance, we're going to have to go search for them physically."

"That's what I've been telling you from the start," Anakin said, surprised at how much he sounded like his own padawan at the moment. Snippy would have been an accurate description of his tone. He corralled his decorum and took on a more creditable demeanor. "It makes no sense for the fleet to remain here. At least, not all of the fleet. We've lost Dooku's scent, and it doesn't take an entire battle group to search for him. We can take the Resolute—or even a shuttle—and go find them." A pause, and then he brought out his ace. "Obiwan, they have what might turn out to be critical data. If it's not worth it to go after the men, isn't it worth it to try and retrieve the information?"

Obiwan cast a sharp glance at his former padawan. "I never said it wasn't worth it to go after the men. It's not only the 501st that had men on that shuttle, Anakin. My commander and some of his best troops were onboard, too. But you and I have been through this before. You can't put your personal feelings and your attachment to your men ahead of the mission. How many times must I tell you this?"

"We could have still carried out this mission and sent a team to search for the missing shuttle," Anakin deferred. "There was no reason both things couldn't have happened at the same time."

"Now, on that count, you may very well be right," Obiwan admitted. "But that decision point has passed, and we now can choose to send a search party without risking the mission—"

"Because there _is_ no mission," Anakin interjected pointedly. "There hasn't been a mission since we got to Florum, and there's no mission here in Nefer. If Dooku had been in either place, he was long gone by the time we arrived. We've been wasting time, and our men could be in serious trouble."

"Then let's stop wasting time now," Obiwan said, careful not to respond to Anakin's emotions with his own display. Instead, he was stolid and even. "Inform Admiral Yularen that the Resolute will proceed back towards Pylotta. Admiral Maali will be placed in command of the battle group in the interim."

Anakin nodded smartly. "'Bout time."

* * *

Rex liked watching her pray.

He was actually amused at the thought, but the truth was that watching Maree pray induced something languid and peaceful within him. He did not stay beside her as she went through her devotions; rather, he walked about the Taber, studying its architecture, its signs and symbols, the statues and lamps and glass fixtures. And whenever he looked back to see the Doma still kneeling before the statue of Me'Ente Loge, he felt a warmth in his chest that he was loathe to abandon.

But if Cody had been successful in his mission, it would all be coming to an end soon, and Rex knew that.

He had already set the stage for their parting; yet, in a strange way, he wanted to feel to the deepest intensity, the final days or hours leading up to that moment. For he feared that once he was gone from this place, back in the throes of battle, back to seeing his brothers die around him, back to doing everything in his power to protect his general . . . he feared _that_ future would crowd out _this_ present.

He wanted to take more with him than just memories. He wanted to take the full thrust of his emotions.

It was the sort of wish only the very young or the very innocent would have made. And precisely the sort of thing the clones had been bred _not_ to do.

The Doma remained in prayer for nearly two hours, but when she was finished, she approached Rex, who watched, with unadulterated fascination, the living floor beneath her.

"So, where are you off to now?" he asked.

"Wherever you want to go," came the reply.

"Do you want to go see how the baby is doing?"

"Truly, Rex, he's hardly a baby—oh! Oh, you mean the Losla? Vod?"

Rex knit his brows together. "Who did you think I meant?"

Maree shook her head. "Never mind. I misunderstood you."

"You thought I meant Kix," he grinned.

She colored. "I thought you were trying to be funny."

Rex gave a deep, quiet laugh. "That is pretty funny, even if it's not what I meant. No, I meant Vod. Do you want to go see how he's doing?"

"I'd love that," she replied. "And while we're at it, we can stop and check on the other baby, as well."

"Now, _you're_ trying to be funny," Rex poked. "Good grief, don't ever let Kix hear you call him that. It's bad enough that his squad mates forget that he could probably take down every one them – well, except Top." A curious affection glinted in his eye. "I don't think they'll ever get past their . . . over-protectiveness. Kix tolerates it, because the five of them are like minkas in a mother's pouch." It was an arcane expression but one that Rex liked the sound of. "But I think he'd be happy if once in a while, they'd remember that he can hold his own, and then some."

"You've alluded to his past—their past—several times," Maree observed. "Soon my curiosity will exceed my ability to control it."

Rex grinned. "Ask them to tell you the story. I only came in at the end of it." He puffed up with pride, which, while genuine, was presented as melodramatic and self-deprecating. "To save the day, of course."

"Of course," she mimicked. "Perhaps I will ask them. They're not exactly shy types."

"Hardly."

"Speaking of telling stories," Rex segued. "One of the sisters from the school asked me if we'd come and talk to the kids tomorrow."

Maree was clearly surprised. "Really? Who asked you?"

"I don't remember her name," Rex replied. "Nadine, Madine—"

"Nareen?"

"Yes, that's it."

The Doma looked perplexed. "And Sister So'Nodor approved this? I would be pleasantly surprised if that were the case."

"She said she checked with Sister So'Nodor."

"Hm." Maree was silent and thoughtful for several seconds, then she asked, "What did you tell her?"

"I accepted," Rex replied. "I didn't think you would mind." He paused. "I, uh, I hadn't personally planned to go there myself. There are plenty of my brothers who would be happy to pass hours telling all kinds of stories." He turned to regard her sincerely. "I would rather spend that time with you, if I can."

"You will get no argument from me," she said with a sweet smile. "I think we have both . . . come to the same conclusion regarding the . . . proper terms of our friendship." With that she reached for his hand. "Shall we go make our visits?"

As it turned out, both Vod and Kix were asleep by the time they arrived, respectively, and so they left them both undisturbed.

As they headed back through the botanical garden, Rex commented on the massive exodus of pilgrims as they reformed their caravans and headed towards the main gate.

"It amazes me that so many people are willing to make such a dangerous journey, especially with so many small children."

"There _is_ safety in numbers," Maree replied. "I'm sure you would agree with that."

"Unless you're up against greater numbers," Rex replied. "Then the idea of safety isn't enough. You have to rely on your wits and your skill. And sometimes, no matter how well prepared you are, it just comes down to luck."

"I do not believe in luck," she stated.

"Fate?"

"I believe everything happens as it should . . . even though we may not understand why," Maree explained. "Just like the way you and your men ended up here. That's something no one would ever have asked for, yet here you are. Ten days ago, I did not know that Captain Rex existed. Now . . . I can't imagine a universe where he doesn't exist."

Rex was silent.

"Does it make you feel uncomfortable to hear me say that?" she asked.

"No, it doesn't make me _uncomfortable_ ," he answered. "I just don't want to put you in a difficult position again." He hesitated. "And I have to be mindful of my own . . . "

"Your own feelings?"

He fixed her with a serious stare. "My own _desires_."

"I see," she said with understanding. "Then know that I trust you, Rex."

And in some oblique way, her words appealed to his ego, his sense of duty and honor. There were certain ways men were supposed to treat women, and he firmly believed in upholding those mores. He only wondered if that belief was strong enough to prevail over the more carnal aspects of his nature. But then he only had to remind himself of his template. Jango Fett had not been a slave to his passions. He had been a man who weighed options and chose his own path. He was disciplined and steadfast.

Those were the traits Rex considered worth developing, and he had worked hard from the earliest moments of conscious memory to be the best. The best soldier, the best leader, the best first-in-command. True, it seemed he'd indulged a bit more of the unorthodox side of Fett than most of his brothers, but it was his drive to succeed that had put him out front—not his penchant for doing things that weren't part of the rulebook.

And then General Skywalker had come along and shown him that the journey to achieving the moniker of "the best" had many possible routes. Their command pairing had been a match made in heaven, if there was such a place. No general could have been better suited to Rex; and no clone officer would have complemented Skywalker to the same degree. They were a team that confounded the normalities, cast off the regimented manner of doing things, and had each other's back no matter the consequences.

And he had seen the way General Skywalker treated women . . . one woman, in particular.

"I want you to trust me," he replied.

The breeze began picking up in the treetops, bringing a shower of pods down upon them as they walked on. It was like walking through a rain storm without the rain.

At length, Rex asked, "So, do you mind if I skip school tomorrow and spend the time with you?"

"You needn't ask," she replied. "I am happy to be with you as much as I can. And I'm sure your men can handle a bunch of school children."

* * *

It was well after midnight by the time Rex returned to the Seiba Tops, and he was not at all surprised to find several of his men congregated around one of the fire pits, enjoying the coolness of the desert night with only the low smolder of embers to take the edge off.

"Late night, gentlemen?" came his greeting.

The men got to their feet. "Sir, we didn't hear you coming," March apologized for their lack of bearing.

"At ease," Rex said easily.

"Burning the midnight oil, Captain?" Ajax asked, settling back down onto the log he'd been using as a seat.

Rex gave a close-mouthed grin. "Just making the most of whatever time we have left here."

"There can't be much more," March noted. "Do you think Commander Cody made it?"

"Absolutely." Rex's answer was almost reflexive, as if the idea of Cody failing at any undertaking was not even a possibility. Rex had never really considered if such confidence might be a dangerous precedent. His faith in the commander was as steady as his faith in General Skywalker.

"Which means, we'll probably be leaving here in the next three or four days," Keeper put forth.

"That seems likely," Rex replied, then narrowing his eyes, "What are you doing out here, Keep?" He shortened the name—something no one else did—a nickname reserved for the 501st captain alone. "You should be inside getting some rest. You're still convalescing."

"I'm just relaxing, Captain," Keeper replied. "It's nice out, and none of us were tired."

Rex grumbled deep his throat. "Okay, then, but don't overdo it." A pause. "Where's everyone else?"

"They all went for a swim," March replied.

"Ah, well then, pass this on to them when they come back," Rex began. "You're all making an appearance at the school tomorrow afternoon, after the midday meal. They want you to come talk to the kids."

"Wow, I didn't think that was ever going to happen," March said with surprise. "They brought it up a few days ago, but nothing ever came of it."

"One of the sisters approached me after the pilgrims' lunch and asked if we'd come," Rex replied.

"And you accepted?" March sounded somewhat incredulous.

"Why not?" Rex replied. "What harm can it do?"

"I don't know, Sir," Ajax warned with a chuckle. "Double Barrel around a bunch of little kids. He'll be telling them how he took off the head of a battle droid from five hundred meters or something."

"And Pitch will probably explain the most economical way to blow up whatever building we're in," Keeper added with a grin.

"DB has already been spending time with the kids," Rex replied. "You've seen it yourself. They love him." He gave a thoughtful pause. "But the teachers might have an issue with his . . . love of weaponry. You're right, Ajax. It might be better to keep him with me instead of letting him go to the assembly. Him and Hardcase. Pitch is level-headed enough not to go overboard, but those two . . . "

"Keep them with you?" Keeper posed. "Are you not going, Sir?"

"No, I've got other things I want to do," Rex replied. "And I'll put those two to work on something."

"DB will be disappointed not to go," Ajax stated. "I think he loves being around those kids more than any of us."

"He'll still get to be around them, just not in front of all the teachers," Rex replied. "And definitely not in front of Sister So'Nodor." A pause. "I'm turning in for the night. Make sure you tell the others about tomorrow. Tell Jesse to come see me tomorrow morning, and I'll give him all the details."

"We'll do, Captain."

"Have a good night, Sir."

 _A good night._

It would be a good night.

But it would not be the night he wanted.

As he headed towards his quarters, his thoughts went back to less than an hour ago when he had said good-night to Maree on the steps outside her residence. It had been the sort of reserved parting that was appropriate for their relationship; a polite and well-mannered well-wishing that suitably masked—or at least appeared to do so—the still-roiling undercurrents of attraction and desire.

The walk from her residence back to the Seiba Tops had been one of the loneliest he'd ever taken. He'd actually given rueful consideration to the idea that it might have been better had his opinion of her remained cool, had he maintained his distance and not allowed himself to entertain—and even encourage—the more lustful thoughts that had wended their way into his consciousness.

Now, as he entered his quarters, stripped off his clothing, and sunk down into the plush softness of his bed, he fought with himself over the thoughts demanding his attention and indulgence. He knew what he wanted. He wanted to see the body beneath the skeins of cloth. He wanted to feel that body against his own. He wanted to touch with his hands and his mouth. He wanted to indulge the exotic, spicy scent of her skin and hair. He wanted to hear her voice and feel her breath, warm against his cheek.

And yet . . . beyond that, he could envisage nothing more.

It was not that he could not picture the acts themselves, for he knew the physiology of sexual contact, even though he had never experienced it. Many times his imagination had taken him where his body had not yet been. The demands of war had left him little opportunity to do more than fantasize. On top of that, he was not easily impressed. Pretty faces and sumptuous bodies might send his brothers into a tizzy, but a woman's physical attributes had never been enough to pry Rex away from his somewhat peculiar belief that, in the short life of a clone, there was no time for making bad choices, no time for dalliances with women who did not present him with what he felt were the necessary qualities in a good woman.

His only problem was that he really had no idea what those qualities were, and that made discerning them in his female companions a difficult and frustrating task. And Rex did not long tolerate frustration.

He hugged one of the pillows to his chest and reproved himself. "How could you let yourself feel this way about someone you can't have? You said all that stuff to her this afternoon, but can you live by it now?" A pause. "Damn it, she said she trusts you. You'd better make sure you don't do anything to betray that trust. You've got to stop thinking about her in that way."

But no matter how hard he tried to distract his thoughts, they repeatedly came back to the same crux.

His mind was going nowhere fast, and only the gentle lull of sleep finally put an end to the unanswerable dilemma.

* * *

"Damn, I'd forgotten how uncomfortable this stuff is," Sixer complained, tugging and adjusting his armor.

Sempe snickered. "We've spent almost every day of the last year living in it. You should be used to it by now."

"I was," Sixer retorted. "Until I felt what it was like to wear something truly comfortable." A pause. "They didn't need to request we wear our armor. We've been entertaining those kids just fine without it."

"I guess they figured it would be interesting for the kids to see us in our uniforms," Sempe replied. He put a hand on his squad mate's shoulder. "Besides, this is your fault. If you hadn't been so hot to see that sister at lunch, we could have skated out without her seeing us, and she never would have mentioned the bit about wearing our uniforms."

"Eh, she would have still found someone else to tell. At least this way, I got a good look at her." Sixer nodded appreciatively. "And it was a nice view."

Ajax appeared in their doorway. "What was a good view?"

Sixer was all grins. "The going-away angle on Sister Nareen."

"And I think that's enough said on that." This came from Jesse, who nudged Ajax through the door and entered right behind him.

"Ah, Jesse, you know how to suck the fun right out of a room," Sixer teased.

Jesse cast him a reproachful eye, but there was good humor behind it. "And as a fellow lieutenant, you should know to moderate your behavior. We're supposed to set the examples for the others." A pause. "Isn't that right, Sempe?"

Sempe, a corporal, inclined his head in agreement. "Without a doubt, Lieutenant." Then looking at Sixer with a meek grin. "Us being squad mates, I tend to forget you're my superior officer. You sure don't act like it—Sir."

Sixer regarded him with a fond smile. "That's because I don't view you as anything but an equal. And in a lot of cases, I think you're a better man than I am."

"Oh, good grief, are we going to have to break out the hankies?" Jesse prodded in dramatic fashion.

But Sixer was one up on him. "Uh, does the name _Kix_ mean anything to you?"

Jesse could not stifle the gentle laughed that gurgled up his throat. "Point taken." He put his arm around Sixer's shoulders. "Now, I think we'd better get headed over there."

"The sister said no weapons," Sixer pointed out. "But I think they complete the ensemble."

"Ensemble?" Sempe mocked.

"No weapons means no weapons," Jesse stated. "They may not care if the kids see us using our blasters out here, but I can understand why they wouldn't want them in the school itself. They're peaceful people. They probably don't want to promote anything they see as violent." A pause. "Now, let's round up the rest and get going."

* * *

"I still can't believe the captain put me on this bogus duty," Double Barrel grunted. "I mean, normally, I'd love cleaning weapons, but this was just an excuse so I couldn't go with the others to the school."

Hardcase simpered. "Do you blame him? You're a bigger killing machine than I am. As soon as you got up and started giving your droid count, and your eyes going all wide and crazy, they'd have to yank you out of there. The captain's not going to take that chance."

"He let Pitch go," DB pointed out.

"Well, that may not have been the best call, but I guess we'll hear about it if he starts getting too graphic," Hardcase shrugged. "Jesse can usually keep him in line."

"What, he can't keep you in line?" DB asked pointedly.

Hardcase grinned wickedly. "Nobody can."

"Except?"

"Yes, okay. The captain can. But that doesn't count," Hardcase deferred. "He's got the power of General Skywalker behind him. I swear, they become more alike every day."

A brief silence followed, then DB spoke wistfully. "You know the one thing I do miss?"

"What's that?"

DB picked up his DC-15, which had been modified into a sniper rifle, and aligned the sights. "I miss picking 'em off. One-by-one from a kilometer away. They never even know I've made them."

"Yeah, you see, that's the sort of thing the captain probably figures school kids don't need to hear," Hardcase grinned. "But I'm with you. I kind of miss all the firepower." He laughed. "We do sound like war-mongers, don't we?"

"Neh," DB countered. "Just two guys who love their guns."

* * *

"Oh, welcome! Wonderful, wonderful!" Sister Nareen greeted her star guests with enthusiasm. "And by the Creator, you all look so different in your armor! So military! The children will be thrilled. They're already so excited, it was hard to keep their attention this morning."

"We appreciate the invitation," Jesse said courteously. "I hope we won't disappoint."

Nareen laughed, a brilliant and uplifting sound. "I don't think that's possible."

She ushered them into a large room that looked, for all intents and purposes, like a gymnasium. On one side was a small, raised platform with chairs on it.

"Here, this is where you'll be sitting," Nareen explained. "The children will sit on the floor."

"Okay," Jesse replied. He wasn't fond of the idea of sitting on a stage with everyone staring at him and his brothers, but he conceded it would be the best way to address the children and make sure everyone could see and hear them.

"Please, please, have a seat, and I will go let the Matrice know that she can start sending the children down."

Nareen hurried off and returned in less than five minutes. The first classes began arriving immediately behind her. They moved to areas on the floor that must have been predesignated and sat down in orderly groups. Within fifteen minutes, the entire room was full of children and teachers.

Sister So'Nodor herself gave the introduction, expressing her gratitude on behalf of the entire school, to the "honored guests who have chosen to spend the afternoon telling us what it's like to be a soldier in the Grand Army of the Republic." She then turned the floor over to Jesse.

And to the amazement of his brothers, Jesse rose to the occasion as if it were second nature to him.

"Well, I already recognize many faces out there. I think a lot of you have been spending some time with me and my brothers. Who's come to visit us at the Seiba Tops? Raise your hands."

For fifteen minutes, Jesse set the scene, encouraged questions, and showed just what made him an exceptional officer and representative of the GAR. He was gregarious and funny but with a seriousness that made it impossible to disregard him.

When he'd finished, he motioned Zinger to the front.

Zinger, likewise, knew how to bring a story alive.

Thirty minutes into the event, Sempe was wondering if he'd ever get his turn. And if he did, what would he say? He was not as outgoing as the others. He wasn't much of a story-teller. He was just a rank-and-file soldier who could have no grand tales to compare with the others.

But as he sat and wondered, he thought he discerned a vibration.

Yes, definitely some kind of tremble.

Was the earth quaking? Were the volcanic thermals acting up?

No. No, this was a vibration of the air. A—a familiar vibration.

He turned abruptly to Sixer. "Do you feel that? It's a ship!"

Sixer focused his hearing. The realization hit him as the same time as Sempe, but the latter beat him to the announcement.

"It's the Separatists again! They're back!" he hissed in Sixer's ear.

Sixer bolted to his feet and dropped to one knee beside Jesse.

"We've got company," he whispered. "And from the sound of it—not friendly."

Now, Jesse could hear the sound of the engines and feel the vibration. "Fek and all . . . " He rose to his feet. "Everyone, I'm sorry, we have to end this now." He looked to the side where Sisters So'Nodor and Nareen were approaching, looking confused.

"What is going on, Lieutenant?" So'Nodor asked. "What's that sound?"

"That's the Separatists coming back," Jesse replied. "We have to get back into the caverns. If they find us, there's going to be trouble. And we can't exactly blend in, wearing our armor."

"Follow me," So'Nodor insisted, then to Nareen. "The assembly is over. Get the students back to their classrooms." She led the clones to one of the doors, but when she pushed on it, it would not open.

"This—this is locked," she said anxiously. "Here, over here. Try this one."

But that door, too, was locked.

In short order, they discovered that they were all locked.

From the outside.

No one, not clone nor teacher nor student, could get out.


	30. Chapter 30

_**Dear Reader, Just having a dickens of a time getting these chapters in presentable order! You might notice that the Jesse in this part of the story still more closely resembles the Jesse from "The Deserter" - responsible, level-headed, and dutiful. Not at all like the Umbara Jesse. Enjoy, CS**_

Chapter 30 Options

" _With a kind of wry envy, Hazel realized that Bigwig was actually looking forward to meeting the Efrafan assault. He knew he could fight and he meant to show it. He was not thinking of anything else. The hopelessness of their chances had no important place in his thoughts. Even the sound of the digging, clearer already, only set him thinking of the best way to sell his life as dearly as he could."_

Watership Down  
Richard Adams

* * *

Rex wiped the sweat from his brow. "I don't know how you handle this heat, day in and day out. I feel like I've sweat out every last bit of fluid in my body."

"Conditioning . . . and centuries of adaptation," Maree replied. "The Bertegadians who live in cooler regions have the same trouble with the heat and dryness that you do."

"I'd suggest a swim, but I know that wouldn't be acceptable," Rex said with an almost teasing mirth in his voice. It was his attempt at making light of that which was churning inside him; an effort of fortitude to do what he knew was right in the face of what he wanted. And yet, some part of him wanted to see what her answer would be.

"A swim hardly constitutes a sin, Rex," the Doma replied in kind, poking back at what she had not quite accepted as her companion's apparent modesty and humble discretion. She stopped walking and turned to fix him with a questioning eye. "Not even the sort of swims you and your brothers seem to enjoy when you think no one is watching." She simpered. "Surely, they have swimming suits on Kamino."

This made Rex smile. "Nothing that a man would want to wear in his leisure time. Swimming for fun was never part of the training regimen on Kamino. Going into the water always served a functional purpose, and so did the clothes." He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Besides, my brothers and I have been in each others' company since day one. We did everything together. There was no such thing as privacy. The sleeping tube was the closest you'd ever get to having a place to yourself." A pause. "Believe me, when you're at war, stuck in some hole, you can't get wadded up about . . . modesty. You see and learn a lot more about your mates than you'd ever want to know." He brought it back up to a humorous tone. "So, uh, baring it all doesn't mean anything to us." He added wryly, "Although it depends on the company, of course."

Maree looked at him with a straight face. "All of that in response to a simple statement."

Rex was perplexed. "I thought you wanted an explanation."

"No, I was going to take you up on your suggestion," she replied.

Rex went from perplexed to stunned disbelief, and it showed on his face.

Maree laughed. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Captain. I'm not suggesting we . . . _bare it all_ , as you so quaintly put it. I have a swimming suit. The brothers can provide you with one."

All at once, Rex felt thrilled, apprehensive, confused, and anxious.

" _A swim hardly constitutes a sin, Rex."_

Of course, she was right. But the thoughts that were trying to push their way to the forefront of Rex's mind . . . those might certainly be considered sinful, at least as the Doma defined it.

" _She trusts you,"_ he reminded himself forcefully. _"She's not thinking the same way you are. You don't even trust yourself, and that's ridiculous. You're a stronger man than this."_ He took her hand in his and gave a gentle squeeze. "You're saying that to accommodate me."

"You _did_ say you wanted to go for a swim," Maree pointed out.

"That's not what I mean," Rex said. "You're agreeing to a swim, because you want to make me happy."

"Is there something wrong with wanting to make you happy?"

It seemed an innocuous question, but Rex knew the answer was not so simple. "If you knew what was inside of me right now, you wouldn't be asking that question." He drew in a long, anticipatory breath. "I pride myself on being a man of conviction. But everyone—everything—has a breaking point. I don't want to risk finding out what that point is in this situation." A pause. "You said we'd reached an understanding on how to be with each other. Yes, I agree with that. But upholding that understanding isn't easy. I'm new at this, and . . . well, I think I've found something I'm not very good at."

Maree laughed, despite herself. "You'll forgive me for saying so, but . . . you worry too much, Rex." She held up her hand, still enclosed in his. "What do you feel when you hold my hand? I'll tell you what I feel. I feel flesh and blood, a creation—not of the Kaminoans but of a far superior mind. I feel the touch of a man with imperfections like the rest of us. Rex . . . stop trying to be perfect. " A fondness glinted in her eyes. "You don't need to try and protect me from succumbing to your many charms." She nodded at the slight color that rose in his cheeks. "If I give in to my own weaknesses, that is between me and my god. You need only be the man you have always been."

"That man has always been perfect," Rex replied cheekily. "Until now."

"Oh, there are moments when you remind me very much of Fels Au-Gehen," she scoffed lightly. "Wed to the rules, boasting about the many areas in which you excel, but never satisfied, always looking for the few places where you are weak."

"I'm hardly wed to the rules—"

" _Your_ rules!" she cut him off. "You have ideas of how things should be, especially how things should be _for you_. And when those rules are violated, I imagine you are a man who overcompensates by imposing even more rules." A pause. "You said you've lost many men. I don't know how you get over those losses, considering the many rules you've set for yourself."

These words, spoken out of love and without malice, suddenly made Rex realize that Maree had been more observant than he'd given her credit for, and for a moment—however brief—his defenses dropped.

"I'm not sure I do get over them," he admitted. "I keep a certain distance from the men. It's not just because I'm their commanding officer. I just have to keep myself at arm's length or . . . or they may see that I care _too_ much, more than I should."

Maree tightened her grip on his hand. "I think they see that already. You may think you're hiding it, but your men aren't fooled. I meant it when I said I think they'd do anything for you. The only thing that scares me is that . . . if you get too locked in your own rigid thinking—unorthodox as it might be, by your own admission—you may find yourself . . . like Au-Gehen, where there is only one way to do things, and you will be constantly on watch for violations in yourself and others."

"I'll take your words to heart," he replied simply. She had cut him to the quick, and he had no words to express how he was feeling at that moment.

"Do you still want to go for a—" Maree fell silent as Rex held up a hand.

He listened for a very few seconds.

"That's a Separatist ship again," he announced.

"I don't hear anything."

"I do, and . . . it's a Perfidio again. They've come back. And it sounds like they're moving fast."

"Now, I hear it."

Both Rex and Maree looked skyward, and no sooner had they raised their eyes than a streak of grey passed overhead at low level, heading south.

"Where's it going?" Rex wondered out loud.

"There, go up on the rocks and you'll be able to see above the trees," Maree said, and she followed him up onto the same overlook where the girls had been spying on the swimming clones.

"It's landing within the walls," Rex said, sounding calmer than he was.

"At the school!" Maree burst out. "Rex, they must know the clones are there! How could they know that?!"

"We'll worry about that later," Rex said hurriedly. "We have to get back to the Seiba Tops and get Hardcase and DB."

"What are you going to do?!"

Rex was already running. "I'm hoping something will come to me along the way!"

* * *

"No luck, Lieutenant. These door are solid and heavy, and there's no way we can break them down without weapons," Ajax reported.

Jesse gave a curt nod, then turned to Sixer who was standing beside him. "Those windows at the top are too high and too small. No signs of hidden exits or escape routes. Looks like we're trapped in here."

"But how did they know?" Sixer seethed. "We're in here wearing our armor, without our weapons, and with all these kids and teachers. This was a setup, Jesse. Even if we'd been armed, we can't put up a fight and risk these people getting hurt. Someone planned this."

"That may be true, but we can't worry about it now," Jesse stated bluntly. He watched as the teachers herded all the children into one corner of the room and then formed a cordon around them.

Sister So'Nodor and Sister Nareen had remained beside the clones from the moment the Separatists' arrival had been detected. Now, Nareen desperately approached Jesse. "We can try to protect you. The teachers can stand between you and Separatists," she offered bravely. But she was speaking from a clearly irrational viewpoint.

"I appreciate that, Sister," Jesse replied. "But that would only result in bloodshed. We're the protectors, and . . . we're going to make the decision that saves the most lives."

So'Nodor interjected. "I am afraid I must agree with the lieutenant. I wish there were another way, but our responsibility is to those children. We have to make sure they are not harmed."

Jesse turned to her. "Do your people have weapons? Can we expect them to mount a defense against the Separatists?"

So'Nodor's expression was one of remorse. "I do not know anything of weapons. We have had no call to fight for as long as I have been a sister. But I am afraid that . . . I am afraid it is unlikely the people would agree to take up arms in your defense, despite what Doma Maree might believe. Our orders are built on the foundations of peace and forgiveness. I fear no one will want to risk disturbing the peace in order to . . . to . . . save a group of . . . "

"Understood," Jesse said. He gave a curt nod, then turned and took a few steps away, motioning Sixer and Zinger to join him.

"The captain is still out there with Hardcase and DB," he said in a low voice. "I don't know what they can do against a ship load of Seppies, but we all know Rex – he'll have something in the works, and probably what we least expect. We need to buy time for him to put whatever he comes up with into motion. We know the Seppies are after the data we downloaded from those consoles. They probably don't necessarily care about recovering it – I'm sure it's stored elsewhere. But they won't want the Republic to have access to it."

"All the data pads are hidden back at the Seiba Tops," Zinger said.

"But the Seppies don't know that—"

"They might," Sixer pointed out. "If this was a setup, whoever tipped them off might have already told them where the data pads are hidden."

"Then we have to hope it takes them a long time to search the rooms," Jesse replied.

"And in the meantime?" Zinger asked.

"I don't see any choice . . ." Jesse frowned. "It's like Sixer said. We can't put up any resistance with all these civilians here. A lot of people could end up getting killed. And we have no weapons. There's not even any place in here to set up an ambush. If they take us outside, we might have a chance. We'll have to play it by the moment."

"So, we're going to surrender," Sixer said.

"Yes. At least, initially."

A low-grade explosion shook the building, sending a gale of debris rocketing in all directions from the southern wall. Through the billowing smoke, a line of super battle droids emerged, followed by a squadron of rank-and-file droids and lastly, a squad of Copian soldiers.

"Fall in behind me and stand fast. Don't do anything to provoke them," Jesse ordered. He then turned to Sisters So'Nodor and Nareen. "Sisters, go join the others. I don't know what's going to happen, but you need to step away from us. Keep the children and the other teachers together in that corner."

"What are you going to do?" So'Nodor asked, the shaking in her voice belying the fear that the violent arrival of the Separatists had ignited inside her.

"We're going to go with them," Jesse replied. "Now, please, step over—"

"But what if they're not here to take you?" Nareen pressed anxiously. "What if—what if they plan to kill you outright? We can't stand by and let that happen!"

"There's no time to argue," Jesse insisted. Please, go over there."

As the sounds of the explosion died, the children could be heard, crying and screaming.

So'Nodor took Nareen by the arm. "Come, Sister Nareen, do as the lieutenant says. The children need us."

As the two women hurried away, Jesse turned to his men once more. "Just keep an eye on me and follow my lead. Our goal is to get them to take us outside, away from the children and teachers."

"Lieutenant . . . look. That's Admiral Vrehnke," Pitch stated in a low voice.

Jesse followed Pitch's gaze. "We all know his history," he scowled. "He'll kill civilians without a second thought, so everyone . . . keep your cool."

The battle droids formed a wide circle, then the Copians formed an interior circle, their weapons trained on the clones.

Admiral Vrehnke came forward, his movements languid, almost leisurely. His translator droid followed close behind.

He stopped a few paces in front of Jesse and spoke briefly. The droid translated. "Are you in charge of these . . . men?" It was of some interest that the droid attempted to also translate the derision and distaste apparently present in the admiral's voice.

"Yes."

"Then be advised that you are now prisoners of the Copian Migrate of the Separatist alliance," the droid once again translated. "And you will turn over all data downloaded from the stolen consoles taken from Pylotta."

"What data are you talking about?"

"I have no time or desire for games, clone," the admiral said, his manner dismissive. "Our contacts on Pylotta told us everything that was loaded on your ship, and we picked up your track the moment you left the planet. Not to mention, we found the remains of your ship in the desert and were able to detect that the data had been accessed and partly copied. I mean to ensure that the information on those consoles does not make it into Republic hands."

Jesse's face was expressionless. In his head, he calculated that it made no sense to continue to deny knowledge of the consoles. Vrehnke knew the consoles had been breached, and now Jesse could only hope that whoever had betrayed them had not already told them where the data was hidden. "We already transmitted it to the fleet," Jesse lied.

"No, you did not. The only transmission that came from your ship was a distress call that had no chance of reaching even a relay beacon."

"I won't try to convince you otherwise," Jesse said evenly.

Admiral Vrehnke made a sort of laughing sound. "I don't need you to convince me of anything, clone." Whatever humor he had expressed was lost in the droid's dull translation. "I have ways of finding out anything I need to know. "

"How did you find out we were here?" Jesse asked, more in attempt to delay than out of the desire to know who had set them up.

"I have an informant," came the reply. "And the only thing he could not tell me was precisely where you've hidden the data. But he did send us coordinates of the facilities. I've already dispatched a squad of droids to go search the premises. Now, tell me: how many data pads are there?"

"I'm not answering any of your questions," Jesse replied. "None of us are."

Another muffled chuckling sound of derision. "Let me show you something." He grunted out _words_ that the droid did not translate, apparently a command to his soldiers, for they advanced quickly towards the clones.

Fearing a reaction, Jesse raised his voice but with calm assurance. "Stand fast. Don't resist."

And even though it went against every instinct that had been bred into the clones, they knew that the actions that normally came reflexively to them were not useful in this situation. There had been no training on Kamino to deal with this sort of dilemma. Escape and evasion training, yes. Resisting torture and interrogation, yes. Surviving prisoner-of-war camps, yes.

Finding themselves prisoners, unarmed, and with the potential for mass civilian casualties . . . no.

They would have fought to the death—even without weapons—were it not for the civilians. But their presence changed everything.

The Copians produced plasma wrist cuffs and bound the clones' hands behind their backs. They were then herded towards the opening that had been blasted in the wall.

"Soldier Echo! Soldier Echo!"

A jolt went through Echo's body at the sound of Yusani's voice, crying out after him, rising shrilly above the sobs and whines of the other children. He looked over his left shoulder, catching a glimpse of her being held in the arms of one of the sisters, reaching out towards him. He felt something painful inside, and for a moment, he actually considered going to her. When his footsteps slowed, it was Fives, behind him, who nudged him along.

"Keep going," he whispered. "She'll be alright. Don't attract attention."

"Fives . . . "

"It'll be okay. Just keep walking—" Fives' voice cut off abruptly as one of the Copian jabbed him in the back with his blaster, pushing him forward and snorting incomprehensibly.

Outside, they found themselves lined up with their brothers in the shadow of a heavily-armed Perfidio-class landing craft.

The translator droid was speaking. "You see this ship. We have enough firepower blow this entire little oasis to pieces." Admiral Vrehnka stepped up face-to-face with Jessie. "You don't have to answer my questions if you don't want to. But I warn you . . . I have a very short temper. And my ship has a lot of munitions. Now tell me how many data pads there are."

Jesse replied, "It would be easier if some of us went with your troops to get them."

"That's not necessary. Just tell me how many there are." The Admiral turned and sashayed a few steps, before turning back as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. But Jesse wasn't fooled. He knew a calculated move when he saw one.

"Ah, and where is your captain?"

"Our captain died in the crash."

"Truly, clone, one more lie, and I may be forced to kill you as you stand." A pause. "My informer tells me that the General Skywalker's clone captain is here. Every Separatist commander knows that braggart Skywalker and his equally flamboyant captain, CT-7567. For a _clone_ , he has a distinct look, and I have not seen that look here. Where is he?"

Jesse was silent.

The admiral went on. "I've already eliminated General Kenobi's clone commander." He caught the slight shift in stance and composure this announcement wrought in several of the clones, and he played it to his advantage. "We ran into him and his companions in the desert. They put up a bit of a fight, but how could they possibly have hoped to prevail? At least, they went down with some semblance of dignity . . . unlike all of you." He walked up and down the line of clones, as if he were a reviewing officer conducting an inspection. "Once I have what I want here, you will garner me a fine personal profit as slaves." He paused to let those words sink in. "I have many customers who are more than willing to pay good credits for such fine stock. After all . . . you creatures are strong and of good constitution. And you're bred to be adaptable. The universe could not provide a better slave template!" A chuckle. "And you are already slaves to the Republic. Only your . . . ownership would change."

He paused, overcome by his own brilliant oratory. "Ah, but I get ahead of myself. I ask you once again, where is CT-7567? He will make fine extortion collateral. Or an impressive addition to my kill list."

But if Vrehnka thought he would get a swift answer to his question, he was met with silence.

"Ah, bumf-bumf-bumf . . . why must you make this difficult? Your refusal necessitates that I take unpleasant measures to obtain what I want." He swept his arm out with a dramatic flare. "Are you all prepared to live with that?" He stepped up to the nearest clone, who happened to be Sempe. "Are _you_ prepared to live with that?"

* * *

"Captain! What's going on? We saw the Separatist landing craft—" Hardcase began, but Rex cut him off.

"Get all the data pads out of the rooms and give them to Nova Merika," he ordered. "Make it fast."

He had been going through possible scenarios and options the entire way to the Seiba Tops. Passing by the Doma's residence, they had picked up Nova Merika and dispatched another one of the servants to find Au-Mikiel and bring him to the Seiba Tops.

Fear for his brothers aside, Rex knew that his number one priority was twofold: secure the information on the data pads and protect the citizens of the Monastica. He had no doubt that the Separatists' primary objective in pursuing the clones was to retrieve the stolen data, and so he had placed its safeguarding as foremost. While his men had kept the data fairly hidden inside their rooms, Rex was under no illusion that a determined search would not uncover the devices; and so, giving them to Nova Merika, who had the entirety of the Monastica—its structures and grounds, including the caverns—from which to choose seemed like the best option.

That task now in progress, he turned to the second part of the priority.

"Can you get all your people underground?" he asked Maree. He began going from room-to-room, checking for functional weapons.

"What are you planning?" she asked, following on his heels and taking the weapons as he handed them to her.

"Surrender," he said bluntly, dashing out one door to go to the next.

"Surrender?!"

"We have no choice," he said, checking the charge load on March's weapon. He knew it was March's by the etched name of a fallen squad-mate, _Barbaro_ , on the barrel. "If this is the same admiral, he's known for the mass murder of civilians. If we put up any kind of fight, this entire place will be laid waste."

"But—if he knows you have the data, and you don't give it to him, might he not kill us all anyways?" she asked.

Rex stopped what he was doing long enough to give her a grave stare. "He might."

"Then let us choose to make that sacrifice—"

Rex scowled. "Don't be foolish," he chastised, resuming his search from room to room. "You need to hide as many of your people as possible. Take them down into the caverns—"

"What will happen if you turn the data over to them?" Maree pressed.

"I don't know," Rex replied. "He might leave without any trouble."

"But he would never agree to leave you and your brothers here-"

"This isn't about me and my brothers," Rex said. "We have a mission, and we're prepared to die for—"

"Let me try talking to him again," the Doma insisted.

"No, no, that's out of the question." He handed her another blaster. "He won't forget that you deceived him."

"If we are all to die anyway, then let me do my part," Maree said. "Let me at least stall to give you more time to—to come up with a better plan than surrendering."

When he ignored her, she set the weapons down and reached out for his arm. "Captain Rex!"

He stopped and faced her; and for reasons he could not quite comprehend, her expression slowed him down, drew him back for a moment.

She spoke slowly, quietly. "I know you must have other courses of action. Don't be worried on our account." She appeared to need a moment to find the right words and the resolve to say what was coming next. "We are a religious people, Rex. And we value peace. But we are not pacifists. When put to it . . . we will fight."

"The Doma is right." This was Au-Mikiel's voice. He had entered the room behind them. "This attack is not just on you and your men, Captain. It is an attack on our home, our sanctuary. We claim the right to defend what the Creator has given us."

"But you're not warriors," Rex protested, almost as a lamentation. "And even if you did know how to fight, there are only a dozen operational blasters here—"

"We have weapons of our own, Captain," Au-Mikiel replied. "And we are far from inexperienced. The forces of darkness have their legions in every age, in every corner of the galaxy. We have done battle before."

Rex was not sure what to make of his words. Was he speaking of actual physical battle with enemies that could be seen and touched? Or was he speaking of some kind of spiritual battle? And what kind of weapons was he referring to? Rex had seen nothing that resembled a weapon of any sort since arriving at the Monastica.

Regardless, the fact was clear that the Verviens and the Austeniens had no intention of being bystanders in the face of the Separatists' arrival. Whatever was to come, they were determined to be a part of it.

"There _is_ another possibility," Rex conceded. "And it depends on a lot of different factors."

"Go on."

"If it is Admiral Vrehnka, then we can use that to our advantage," Rex began thoughtfully. "How many men can you give me?"

"Every fit man and woman within these walls," Au-Mikiel replied.

"With weapons?"

The First Servant nodded.

"The one thing about Admiral Vrehnke is that he commands with an iron fist," Rex explained. "His commanders may be ruthless, but without him to lead them, they descend into chaos. If we can pick off Vrehnke, we'll have a small window in which to take down the other Copians. Then we can tackle the battle droids." A pause. "This all depends on the size of the detail he brought with him." He looked at Au-Mikiel. "And the good aim of your people. Right now, I need maybe two dozen armed men to go with me and recon the situation. Once we see how things are, I'll know better how to proceed."

Au-Mikiel nodded. "I will send Au-Ogusta at once. He's waiting outside. Where shall I tell them to meet us?"

Rex deferred. "Where's a good place?"

"The Healing Obelisk," Mikiel replied. "It is on the way and under good tree cover. I do not imagine they will see us there."

"I have no idea where that is," Rex admitted.

"I will be with you. I will take you. Let me go send Ogusta to bring back the men."

As he left, Hardcase and Double Barrel entered.

"We gave all the data pads to Nova Merika, Captain," Double Barrel stated.

"Good, good," Rex nodded. "DB, is your long gun working?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Then I want you to take a position up on top of the Taber. You should be able to scope the assembly hall and the Separatist ship from there."

DB grinned wickedly. "Who am I sniping?"

"With any luck, Admiral Vrehnka," Rex replied.

"How will I know when you want me to take the shot?"

"You'll see us closing in and forming a perimeter. Any time after you see us in place, take the first clear shot. But make sure you wait until you see us. If we're too far away, we won't be able to take advantage of it," Rex told him.

"Yes, Sir."

Rex next turned to Hardcase. "Hardcase, you're with me. We're going to have to formulate a plan of attack, and we have only a matter of minutes to do it. Plus, we're going to have to show the Austeniens how to take down a battle droid."

"I can hardly wait, Sir."

Now came the hard part. He looked to Maree; and the very thing that he had, only moments ago, lambasted as out-of-the-question, he now put back on the table.

"Doma," he began, reverting back to her title in the presence of his men. "I _am_ going to need you to stall him. Whatever you can do to buy us . . . five minutes, ten minutes."

Maree nodded. "I'll find a way."

Rex resisted the urge to touch her. "Remember what I said. He's a vicious killer. Be careful."

"I will," she replied.

"And just . . . stay alert," he warned. "I'm not sure how this thing is going to come off."

"I'll be ready."

An unfamiliar face peered into the room. It was one of the ni-Doma, recruited by Au-Mikiel on his way to the Seiba Tops. The young woman had been keeping an eye open outside the Seiba Tops.

"Doma Maree! There are battle droids coming through the woods!"


	31. Chapter 31

_**Dear Reader, There are some violent scenes in this chapter, though nothing gruesome. Also of note . . . in a real battalion, there would be many captains and many lieutenants, but since TCW doesn't quite follow any military structure, I'm taking some license here. There's only one captain in the 501st - Rex. But he has several lieutenant platoon leaders: Jesse is one. Another is Sixer. So, when you see Sixer referred to as lieutenant, don't be surprised. This is a very busy chapter, so I hope it's not too confusing. Happy reading! CS**_

Chapter 31 Patience and Power

" _Patience is power. Patience is not an absence of action; rather it is 'timing'. It waits on the right time to act,  
for the right principles and in the right way."_

Bishop Fulton Sheen

* * *

The announcement that battle droids were on the way forced Rex's departure from the Seiba Tops. With Hardcase in tow, he followed Au-Mikiel, the ni-Doma, and Maree as they led the way towards the Obelisk.

Five minutes into the wood, Maree pointed up ahead. "There – that's the Obelisk. Go on, Captain. We'll catch up with you in a moment."

Rex turned to regard her warily. "What are you doing?"

"I just need a moment with Au-Mikiel and Kista," Maree replied.

Rex did not accept this as an answer. "What are you doing?" he asked again with more insistence.

"There's no time for this, Captain," Maree snapped. "I have an entire people for which I am responsible. What commands I give to them are not subject to your scrutiny. Go on to the Obelisk. I will only be a moment—"

"I need you to go ahead and stall Admiral Vrehnke—"

"And I will." She put a hand on his arm. "Rex, please . . . give me these few seconds. Trust me. What I have to say has only to do with . . . the religious side of this situation."

It had to be one of the most bizarre and incomprehensible statements Rex had ever heard, but time was being wasted arguing. And the fact was that he did trust her.

"We'll be waiting. Be fast."

As Rex and Hardcase moved on ahead, the Doma turned to her companions.

"Mikiel, I have a task and you must not fail," she said directly. "Go find Merika. She was headed back along the Dayla Run. Get others to help you find her, if you must."

"What am I to do when I find her?"

Maree leaned closer in a conspiratorial manner. "Listen to me, and make no mistake with my instructions. This may be the only chance we have."

* * *

"I asked you a question, clone. Are you prepared to live with the suffering you are forcing me to inflict as a result of your refusal to cooperate?"

Sempe's gaze went from the admiral to the translator droid. One was distinctly more tolerable to look at than the other. And as much as Sempe would have liked to toss out a masterful rejoinder, he knew better. Jesse had been clear: do nothing provocative. And so he stood silently.

"Stoic," Admiral Vrehnke harrumphed. "I admire stoicism. Truly, I do."

Beside Sempe, Sixer felt a tingling sensation crawling up his spine. Such inklings, bordering on premonitions, constituted the other half of the story behind his nickname. His predilection for old-fashioned six-shooters aside, he also had an uncanny ability to predict when certain things were coming. A "Sixth Sense", so to speak. Hence, the name "Sixer."

He felt one of those moments approaching, could see it in the subtle shifts in the admiral's stance, even detect it in the collection of grunts and growls that served as Copian language.

And the instant Vrehnke pulled out his sidearm, Sixer was in motion. He sprang towards Sempe, knocking him down just as the weapon leveled with what would have been the corporal's head. The discharge that followed made contact – but not the lethal contact that had been intended.

Sempe landed hard on the ground, Sixer on top of him.

The smell of seared flesh was already filling the air with its rank, metallic odor.

"Sixer! Sixer! Lieutenant!" Sempe struggled—his hands still bound behind him—to get to his knees.

Sixer rolled to his side and onto the ground, coming to rest on his back . A smoking ring of black showed where the shot had gone through his armor in the upper right chest. He was clearly in pain, but to his credit, he maintained his composure and directed his focus towards controlling his breathing.

" . . .'m 'kay," he said in an even, thin voice. "S-Stay calm."

Sempe knew the command was directed at him, and he imagined how he must have looked for Sixer to feel it necessary to say such a thing. Sempe was always calm, always faithful, always in control of his emotions. Even in the face of the deaths of fellow batchers, he'd always managed to hold it together.

And he was determined to do so now. He would not let his lieutenant down.

Admiral Vrehnke shook his head. "Bumpf! That was not a smart thing to do. While killing clones is, admittedly, a fine way to pass the time, I would be happier to cash in on you with the slave traders. Maybe one dead clone would not have been enough to convince any of you to tell me what I want to know; but now, I find that I must kill two of you – just for the feeling it gives me."

"You can kill us all, and you still won't get what you want," Jesse said.

The Copian laughed – or something approximate to it. "That may be true. It is very likely true. Clones hold their lives so cheaply. And so do I." He aimed his weapon at Sixer, helpless on the ground.

"Stop!"

All eyes, including Admiral Vrehnke's, turned towards the sound of the voice.

The Doma emerged from between two scrubby Julpe bushes in a line of foliage that surrounded the clearing where the Perfidio had landed.

Immediately, the droids trained their weapons on her.

"Ah, the holy woman arrives at last. I was wondering how long it would take you to get here," the admiral sneered. "Let her pass."

Maree came forward, but instead of going to Vrehnke, she walked past him and crouched down beside Sixer. She put a hand on his forehead, then after a few seconds, she smiled at him and gave an almost imperceptible nod – a manner of comfort that went beyond the injury and spoke to the situation itself.

Vrehnke looked on with an air of superior indulgence. Why not allow the woman to check on the injured clone? It would only make his death more pitiable when it came, and she would be witness to it.

"Is it your practice to execute prisoners?" Maree asked, standing up and facing Vrehnke.

"If you knew anything about me, you'd already know the answer to that question is _yes_ ," the admiral replied. "Although, I do have other plans for these clones. I will turn them over to the slavers and make a tidy profit, while I'm at it. That is, if any of them are still alive by the time this is over."

Maree kept her expression neutral, her voice placid. "Why have you come back here?"

"Absurd question. You know very well why I have come back," Vrehnke replied. "What I would like to ask is . . . how can a holy woman reconcile herself with lying? You lied to me the last time I was here." A snigger. "Fortunately, one of your own people puts honesty ahead of dishonesty. He told me the clones were here."

"Who told you? Who was it?"

"Aggg, tsa-tsa. I can't tell you that. I may yet have need of his services." He strolled a few paces, then turned with well-rehearsed effect. "That is, unless you decide you want to be helpful."

"I want you to leave," Maree replied. "This is a religious community. We are healers. We offer sanctuary to those in need. You could not reasonably expect us to turn the clones over to you." She narrowed her eyes. "You are, after all, the enemy."

"The enemy? Why, that's hardly fair. Had you not harbored the clones, I never would have had cause to come here. You never would have become my enemy. I wished no harm on you or this community. All you had to do was turn them over to me the first time. But you chose not to," the admiral pontificated. "You chose to hide them from me. And now, you aid them in hiding the information that rightly belongs to the Separatists, and . . . they have yet to produce their captain. I _know_ he's here. And probably planning some pathetic attempt to make a stand against vastly superior forces. Ugnh! This is all such a waste of time! I have so many other things that are more important. I grow bored."

"If you have better things to do, then might I encourage you to leave this place and go do them?" Maree said, making sure not to allow derision to come into her tone.

The admiral appeared about to respond, but one of the other Copian officers came up and grunted something into his ear. Then followed a moment of consideration before Vrehnke turned back to Maree.

"The droids have reported that the data pads are not where they should be," he announced. "It appears someone has moved them."

"That is the case," Maree replied evenly.

"Are you expecting me to just pick up now and leave? Bumph! It's too much trouble to search for the data? Why don't I just leave this sand pit without getting what I came for?" He rested his hands on his hips. "Is that what you are expecting?"

"No," Maree replied. "I think we should try to come to an agreement."

"An agreement? Do you see yourself in a position to negotiate?" Vrehnke scoffed.

"In fact, I do," Maree replied. "I have something you want. You have something I want."

"Please, do go on."

"I will agree to hand over the data pads if you will agree to leave here in peace," she proposed. "And the clones stay here."

There was a brief silence before Admiral Vrenhke burst out chortling in scorn. "You think you can dictate terms to me? You think you can drive a bargain with me? Let me show you who is in charge here." He raised his wrist and spoke into the commlink. "Fire."

A cannon blast erupted from one of the Perfidio's forward turrets, obliterating one side of the assembly hall, raising a cloud of dust, burning debris, and rubble.

The force of the explosion sent a jolt through Maree's body, and she turned away to shield herself from the shockwave. When she looked back, the horror, the reality welled up inside her. Yet, she clamped down on any display that might give away what she was thinking, that might give the enemy more of an upper hand than he already had.

She heard a voice raised in anger and fear.

"By the Creator! What are you doing! There were children in there!"

Turning, however, she saw the accusation was not directed at the Separatist general, but rather, at her.

It was Fels Au-Gehen.

Where he had come from, the Doma had no idea. But what she did know—now—was the identity of the traitor. It was there, discernible in his face, in the manner with which he strode out in front of the enemy without a care for his own safety, in the glare of hatred directed at her.

Maree said nothing as Au-Gehen continued on his rampage. "You cannot play games with him! You cannot get the upper hand! These men—" he waved towards the clones, "—are not important to us! They are not worth the lives of our people! Our children! Give the admiral what he wants, and be done with it! This is your fault, Doma! You brought all of this upon us!"

She did not speak right away. So much was going on for her to consider. Had Rex and the others gotten into place yet? Had Mikiel found Merika and done as she'd asked? Was he on his way here now? And yet, looking into Au-Gehen's eyes, she saw the only thing that mattered in that one instant.

He believed his words. He believed she had brought ruin upon them. But he also believed that he had failed – not only to stop the perceived influence of the clones, but in his turning to the Separatists to solve the problem of their presence. He was angry, hurt, and confused. And that made him dangerous. Very dangerous. With all the knowledge Au-Gehen possessed, Maree knew it was crucial to defuse the volatility building inside him.

"Be at peace, brother," she said gently. "This is the work of evil forces. We can prevail over them together."

"What's evil is—is the vice and—and decadence that you allowed these clones to bring within our hallowed walls! I did what I had to do to get rid of the scourge!" He pointed wildly at the smoking assembly hall. "That is your fault!"

"And I will put everything right, brother," she assured him. She looked back to Admiral Vrehnke, who waved his hand limply in front of his chest, as if the whole thing were insignificant to him.

"You see, I have no intention of negotiating," he said. "Give me the data pads and CT-7567, and I will leave here and take all the clones with me, thus eliminating your problem."

"How do I know you won't blow something else up?" Maree asked.

"Why, you have my word, and it's at least as good as yours." His meaning was clear.

* * *

"Fek and all! That was an explosion!" Hardcase exclaimed, getting to his feet, ready on the instant in the event an attack was drawing near. "Look! There's a cloud billowing up over there!"

"That's where the assembly hall is," Au-Ogusta stated. He had arrived at the Obelisk less than five minutes earlier with the two dozen requested men and an impressive array of weapons, much to the clones' surprise. Since then, he had been receiving, along with the rest of them, a flash lesson on how to take down a droid.

Rex spared only a glance at the growing plume. He wondered what could have possibly happened that had resulted in an explosion. He'd trusted Doma Maree to keep the admiral occupied for some little amount of time. He didn't know if the explosion was part of her plan or not. Either way, they could not afford to wait any longer. By now, Double Barrel was in place and waiting for them to do likewise. "We're out of time. Let's get moving. Once we get a little closer, Hardcase and I will move out front to recon the situation. The rest of you will wait for us to come back with orders—instructions."

As they began moving forward, it was not lost on Rex that he was leading a platoon of religious brothers into battle.

It was something he could never have imagined in even his wildest dreams. But then again, his dreams had never been very wild to begin with.

* * *

"This is the best spot. You can see straight down to the assembly hall from here."

These words were spoken by the brother who had led Double Barrel to the top of the northern parapet of the Taber. It had been a long climb up hundreds, if not thousands, of steps; and yet the man was not even winded.

Double Barrel imagined it must be a trip the man made often, for he seemed to know every step, every door, every angle, and every view within, on top of, and around the temple.

"This is perfect," Double Barrel nodded, testing out various postures for the steadiest and clearest shot. The sights on his modified rifle allowed him to draw a bead on a man's head at two thousand meters. He slid down on his belly to the edge of the cornice between two of the wall rises and tucked his left arm under the weapon, flush with the length of the barrel for more stability.

"Hello, ugly bastard," he murmured a moment later, as he lowered on the optically enhanced image of the general. "Got you right where I want you."

A bright flash of light blinded his scope for an instant, and a second later, the sound of the blast followed.

"What the—"

He lowered the rifle and his mouth dropped open.

Half the assembly hall was destroyed.

"What—what happened?" the brother beside him asked, stunned and staring.

"They blew the fekking thing up . . . " Double Barrel breathed. "They blew it up." He swallowed down the bile in his throat and returned to looking through his scope as the dust settled. Then, although he was speaking out loud, he was addressing no one. "Come on, Captain. Get moving. I'm getting an itchy finger."

* * *

Rex crept to the last line of Julpe bushes and cautiously peered through the densely packed leaves.

"The assembly hall's been blown up," he whispered needlessly as Hardcase drew up beside him. "Our men are all outside."

"There's Admiral Vrehnke," Hardcase noted. "Doma Maree's talking to him. Who's that standing there with her?"

"Au-Gehen," Rex replied. "He looks like he's flipped his lid."

"I count forty battle droids. Ten supers. And . . . roughly twenty Copians," Hardcase reported. "No commandoes, so that's a good thing. No rollers."

"Go bring up the others and space them around the perimeter on this side of the ship," Rex ordered. "Tell them to be ready for anything. We don't know exactly when DB is going to take his shot, but once Vrehnke goes down, we need to take out the Copians first. Then go for the droids."

"How many more do you think are on that ship, Sir?" Hardcase asked.

"Not more than a hundred total," Rex replied grimly. "But remember, without Vrehnke, they'll be going in a hundred different directions."

"One more question, Sir? This is a landing craft. That probably means the ship it came from is nearby. What happens when they come looking?"

Rex was not willing to entertain even the possibility at the moment. "One disaster at a time, Hardcase. Now go bring the others up."

* * *

"The data pads are already on their way," Maree stated. "When we saw your ship arrive, the clone captain ordered the data pads be removed from the rooms and hidden elsewhere. But I went behind his back and ordered the data pads be brought to me. They should be here any moment."

"Am I to believe that, after all you've done to protect the clones, that now you will just turn them over to me without a second thought?" Vrehnke did not believe her, and with good reason.

"I'm not talking about turning over the clones," Maree pointed out. "I'm talking about the information. I have no qualms about giving you the data – if you agree to leave the clones here."

"If the data is already on its way here, how will you stop me from getting it? Truly, holy woman, you are a fool," the admiral scoffed.

"I trust my god to intervene, if necessary," came the reply. "In whatever way he deems fit."

"Not only are you a fool, but you are delusional, as well."

"Doma Maree!" It was Au-Mikiel calling out. He was running down the path, and his arms were piled high with data pads.

He was stopped by two droids who did a quick scan for explosives, and finding none, they took the data pads and approached the admiral.

Maree watched as Vrehnke took one and turned it over in his bejeweled hands. The Doma had no reason to think the Copian flag officer would accept the data pads and leave without further incident. Yet, there was nothing to be lost in the attempt and possibly everything to gain.

He handed the device to one of the droids and spoke something that the translator droid did not translate.

"You appear to have at least some small amount of sense," the admiral snorted. "But after your deception the first time, I am sure you understand that I must exercise greater . . . skepticism. The droids are checking to make sure the data has not been tampered with." He held out a hand as a gesture, ostensibly, of accommodation. "While they do that, perhaps you will be so kind as to address my second demand."

"What demand is that?"

"CT-7567. Where is he?"

"I don't know who that is."

"The clone captain of the 501st Battalion. According to my sources, he was the only captain on the ship. You mentioned he told you to hide the data pads. I am quite certain you know of whom I speak," Vrehnka said, taking a step closer.

"If you mean Captain Rex, he fled into the desert."

"That is a lie," the admiral snorted. "And leave his men behind to suffer alone whatever fate I have planned for them? That is not something CT-7567 would do. I am sure he is cooking up a scheme even now. In fact, you are probably part of it."

Maree felt a drop of sweat trickle down her back. She was running out of delaying tactics. And it appeared Vrehnka still had no intention of leaving without the clones. And Rex, in particular. Speaking of whom, where was he and what was taking so long to put the sniper plan into action?

Before her, the smoldering rubble of the assembly hall was almost more than she could bear. How many people were inside, injured, needing help, and she could do nothing? How many had died in this attempt to protect the men who were sworn to be the protectors? There still might be a chance Vrehnka would leave with the data pads and all would work out.

" _Give the plan a chance to work. Just . . . keep your head."_

"Admiral." One of the battle droids approached. "These data pads have been accessed for download."

"Really? How unexpected." The Admiral's tone made it clear that this news was anything but unexpected.

"The information is still present, but it's been downloaded onto some other device," the droid continued. "All of them indicate downloading."

Vrenhke turned to Maree and brushed a hand over his tusks. "Bumph! Bumph! How do you explain that? Peculiar, is it not?"

"I don't know what any of that means," Maree replied, the sweat now starting to collect between her shoulder blades.

"I think you know _exactly_ what it means," the admiral replied. "And I will destroy every inch of this place in order to ensure that wherever you've stored that data is obliterated along with every person within these walls. I hope these creatures—" he swept his hand towards the clones, "—were worth it to you!"

"Stop! This was never part of our agreement!" Au-Gehen shouted, rushing forward only to be stopped in place by two Copians. "You were to take the clones and leave!"

"And we shall," Admiral Vrehnke replied. "I am a man of my word. Once we have ensured the destruction of the data—through the destruction of this entire place—I will take the clones and be on my way. However, I think it will be entertaining for me to watch the two of you witness the end of your way of life. Bumph! Had you both been a bit more understanding of the other's position, you might have avoided this situation altogether. No matter! This is far more enjoyable." Again, he raised his comm-link.

"Primary target. Fire at will."

* * *

Double Barrel could see the Austeniens moving into position, directed by Hardcase. He could see Captain Rex crouched behind the line of Julpe bushes. He could see the Doma. He could see Vrehnka. For a moment, he thought his task would be disrupted as Au-Gehen surged forward, but the Copians held the brother back, and Double Barrel's shot was clear.

"Kiss it, you ass-faced pincushion."

The moment he pulled the trigger, something happened around him. It was so fast and so violent, he never even had the chance to recognize what it was. The stone floor below him crumbled, everything was caving in. He was going down, down with stone and mortar and dust and sand. Down into a darkness that seemed to engulf everything. A fleeting thought flashed through his mind.

"Down to my death."

* * *

From somewhere beyond sight, from the reaches of the Dreadnaught in orbit, a bolt of yellow light flashed like a thousand suns, striking the Taber. The stepped dome collapsed, its weight bringing down the northern and eastern parapet walks; but the walls – more than three meters thick in some places—held.

Maree stood staring in horror. She raised her hands and behind her closed fingers, she gasped, "The souls . . . the souls." This attack on the sacred awakened in her that which the attack on the assembly hall had not. The panic and anger caused by the latter had been missing the one element that Maree most feared, for it was the one element she had not yet mastered. The sense of justice done in the name of righteousness.

It was not for Maree to render judgment of any kind. It was not for her to render anything other than a temporal punishment for temporal infractions, the sort of thing she did daily with those in her charge. But this would be an eternal punishment for an eternal evil.

Attacking the residing place of the souls . . .

* * *

There were a few seconds during which Rex thought he might lose command of his wits. Everything seemed to be rapidly falling apart. It took him but the blink of an eye to recognize that with the strike on the Taber, it was highly likely that DB had been killed. He'd seen a blaster bolt hit the ground behind Vrehnke, and there could be no questioning where it had come from. Almost simultaneously, he'd heard the explosion behind him.

Taking in sight of the Taber and knowing that his sniper was probably not going to be of any further help, he shoved the loss of his brother down where he stored all losses—someplace where they could not touch him—and drew a line with his pistol . . .

. . . but the sites would not stay aligned.

He was shaking.

The air was shaking.

Fek and all, something was shaking, and he didn't know what in hell was going on!

"Doma, no! Doma! No!" It was Au-Mikiel screaming at the top of his lungs.

Rex looked at Maree, and to his eyes, she appeared no different. She stood staring over and past him, towards the Taber. There was nothing in her eyes or her stance to mark that something was going on.

But something was.

Rex looked back towards the Taber and saw, crawling up the damaged outer walls, a sort of pulsating, undulating sea of red-orange light. And even though he was at a good distance, he could see streaks of other more defined figures flashing and disappearing in the cloud of light. It was very similar to what he'd seen on the night of the Finirest, except that this light was not white.

"Doma! Please! Come to yourself! This is not the time! This is not for you to do!" Mikiel was still crying out. "Better we all perish than abuse the power of the souls! Maree! Maree!"

But if she were hearing him, the Doma gave no indication, and the red light continued to climb.

Admiral Vrehnke watched in curiosity. With the weaponry at his disposal, he had little to fear; but all the same, he gauged the distance between him and gangway to his ship.

Mikiel moved towards the Doma, but the Copians held him back. "Maree, listen to me, please! You will lose all those he has given you! This is not the time! I am ready to die! We are all ready to die, but the souls must not be sacrificed for us! We are to protect them! _You_ are to protect them! Maree, listen to me!"

And suddenly, Rex realized what the Doma was doing – or contemplating doing. And even though he did not understand it – didn't even know if he truly believed in the existence of a soul, and if he had, he certainly would not have put animal souls on the same level as human souls—he knew he was in the presence of something more enduring than the trials of the moment, more enduring than the Republic which he served or the enemy he fought. He was in the presence of something eternal, and he was witness to one woman's determination to use it and one man's desperation to safeguard it.

He broke free from his hiding place, every thought of the previous plan now gone from his mind.

"Doma! Stop—"

"Ah! Stop him! Subdue him!" Admiral Vrehnke shouted, recognizing the final piece of the puzzle had just delivered himself into his hands.

Rex made no attempt to stop them as the Copians dragged him down and took his weapons. Still, he continued imploring the Doma.

"Nothing is worth what you're about to do!" he insisted, not even sure himself what it was that was in the making. "Nothing! Not me! Not my brothers! Not the Republic!"

"Listen to him, Doma," Mikiel pleaded, his voice grown calmer. "He is not one of us, yet he speaks the truth. You have been a faithful guardian for over twelve hundred years. Do not let this be the end of that. We will all die, but the souls will be safe. Even if the temple is destroyed, the souls will be safe . . . as long as they are finirested. Send them back, Doma."

Maree's gaze fell to where Rex was pinned on his stomach, his hands being drawn behind his back. Yet, he craned his head to keep his eyes on her.

He made a subtle nod, and it was this that made the fire start to simmer and flitter away in Maree's chest. The fever was abating, and yet the Doma knew the calming was not of her own doing. She owed the saving moment to Mikiel and Rex, the former for reminding her forcefully of her duty, the latter for touching her heart even in the midst of his own confusion.

The fact that both of them had been more prepared than she was to sacrifice everything had been a humbling and a sober indication that she had let her convictions grow soft, that the possibility of accessing the power at her fingertips had only been kept in check for lack of a truly trying condition under which to exercise it.

Now, she watched as Rex's arms were bound like his brothers', he was hauled to his feet and led before Admiral Vrehnke.

"Well, now, that's a shame," the admiral lamented. "I was curious to see what would happen. But at least it brought my final prize out of hiding. I do believe we may now depart this litter box and watch from the glorious reaches of space as my weapons officers turn everything to glass."

The sound of a single bolt of blaster fire rang out.

Admiral Vrehnke fell like a stone.

 _What the—what? What?!_

Rex looked around wide-eyed. Who fired the shot?

 _Damn!_

He hit the dirt in the next instant as the whole place was suddenly filled with the blue, red, and orange streaks of multiple weapons types.

It looked like his plan had not gone fully up in smoke.

 ** _One more small note: the name Sempe is a direct bow to "Semper Fidelis" - the motto of the Marine Corps, "Always Faithful." So, Sempe's name means "Always". Just thought I'd throw that out there!_**


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32 Decisions Against the Grain

" _We are right behind you.  
You are proving that we are loyal  
in this land and wherever you go.  
You will come back victorious and free,  
and we will be waiting for you."_

 _Faith  
_ Yukio Ota

* * *

"Everyone, get down!"

It was a somewhat unnecessary order, for the moments shots began being exchanged, everyone _had_ gone for cover. The clones, wrists still bound behind them, had run for the ruins of the assembly hall. Sempe and Ajax stayed at Sixer's side until, from under the cover of the brush, two Austeniens raced forward and dragged the lieutenant back into the bushes, which offered no safety at all – only concealment.

Au-Mikiel had snatched up the weapon of a fallen Copian and was trying to herd Au-Gehen towards the bushes as well. The latter was staggering about like a sick Helbit confused by the daylight.

Rex got to his feet and turned to see the Doma coming towards him.

"Take cover!" he ordered, but she paid him no heed.

Instead, she came around behind him and pulled at the cuffs. "How do I get these things off you?!"

"You need a synchronizer from one of the Copian—wait! Where are you—come back here!"

His words again fell on deaf ears as the Doma ran up to one of the dead Copians, dropped to her knees, and began looking for the device.

But, of course, she had no idea what it looked like, and the Copian wore many gadgets on his belt and all over his uniform. Which one was the synchronizer? There was no tell-tale indication among the items she was looking at.

All around her, blaster bolts were flying, men were shouting, the wreckage of the assembly hall was smoking, the ship was sending out more troops and laser fire.

She had no time to dally over which might be the right device; but there lying half-concealed under the dead Copian was something she understood well enough.

A blaster.

She pulled at it until it slid free, and when she whirled around to return to Rex, she was startled to find him right behind her.

"Did you find it?" he asked.

"No, something better!" She grabbed his arm and abruptly spun him around, placed the muzzle of the weapon against the glowing bonds . . .

"Woah—hold it! What—do you know how to—"

She pulled the trigger.

"Fire this thing?" she finished the sentence expectantly. "Yes, I do."

"Some holy woman," Rex said, not sure if he was joking or not. And at the moment, it did not matter.

"Not as holy as I should be, apparently," came the reply, and the tone was as dubious as the one Rex had used.

Rex took her by the wrist and ran her towards the line of the Julpes. Ducking behind them, he dropped to one knee, pulling her down with him. "Go and take cover in the caverns," he said, taking the weapon from her hands.

"Captain, these are my people fighting—"

"Do as I tell you!" he cut her off, the seriousness and insistence of his voice and manner shutting down any further protest the Doma might have been contemplating.

She gave a distressed nod of concession. "What about you?"

"We have a fighting chance," he replied. "Now, go—"

Just to the left of where they were crouching, a broad streak of light pierced the flimsy cover of the leaves and branches and blew the nearby outcropping of rock into a fountain of debris.

Rex knew such a hit had not come from a blaster or a battle droid. That had come from the Perfidio's cannons. As he took a moment to clear his head, an Austenien appeared in front of him.

"Captain Rex, are you alright?"

It was Au-Ogusta.

"Yes . . . yes," he stammered, raising a hand to his head, expecting to see it come back covered with blood. But it was clean. He looked towards Maree. "You okay?"

"Yes—"

"Then go on," he pressed, then seeing the reluctance in her eyes, he went out on a limb and made the sort of statement he swore he would never utter unless he truly believed it. "Everything will be alright. I'll see you soon."

Whether or not she believed him, Rex didn't know; but he felt both a sense of relief as he watched her run back into the woods and an aching sadness that threatened to pervade every thought and every movement unless he returned his attention solely to the battle.

"More soldiers are coming out of the ship, Captain," Ogusta announced. "And more droids, too. The rest of our men should be arriving shortly. We only have to hold them off until they get here."

"The rest of your men?" Rex regarded him with surprise.

"We are only the twenty you asked for," Ogusta replied. "More are coming."

Rex gave a curt nod. "I hope they get here soon."

* * *

"Take him to the healing rooms immediately. Leave your weapons here."

Neither Sempe nor Ajax recognized the brother who had just ordered two of his fellow Austeniens to remove Sixer from danger. He appeared to be a somewhat older man, perhaps sixty or sixty-five standard years; but he cut a fine figure of authority and collectedness.

As soon as Sixer was gone, the brother turned to the two clones. "I'm Fels Au-Raphe." He used his blaster to severe their bindings. "It looks like we have our work cut out for us." He handed them the two weapons left behind by the brothers. "I think the first priority is to get to your friends out there in the rubble. We can only defend them to a degree from here. They will need the use of their hands and weapons of their own if they don't want to get cut down." A pause. "You two can lay down cover fire, and I'll try to get over there."

Ajax, taking mental note of the man's age and despite his apparent excellent physical condition, could not help but consider that a younger man might be faster. "Do you think it would be better if one of us ran across?"

"No, I think it would be better for you two to keep the fire coming," Au-Raphe replied. "Are you ready?"

"Ready."

Au-Raphe broke from his position as Sempe and Ajax did their best to clear a path for him. Shots were coming from so many places at so many angles, it was hard to know where to shoot to keep the enemy's head down. When one assailant was forced to take cover, another had an open field.

Even so, Au-Raphe—with the help of some very acrobatic maneuvers—made it to the ruins. Ducking down behind a pile of broken stone and the remains of still smoldering wooden beams, he wasted no time freeing the first clone he came to, who happened to be March.

"Are there any more injuries?" Au-Raphe asked.

"I don't think so," March replied. "I'm not sure."

"Take this and free the other clones," Raphe said, handing him the blaster. "I'm going to try and get some more weapons."

March didn't even wonder for an instant where or how Au-Raphe planned to get those weapons. He had his own task: freeing his brothers, and they were spread out along the edge of the rubble. He began picking his way—not so carefully—from one cluster of clones to the next; and as luck would have it, he came last to Jesse, hunkered down with Pitch and Zinger.

As he cut their bonds, he explained, "One of the brothers is trying to get us weapons. You're the last ones I've made it to. I told the others to stand fast."

"Good job," Jesse nodded. "Did you see Sixer?"

"I saw some Austeniens carry him away," March replied.

"Hopefully, he's safe," Jesse said grimly. "What about everyone else?"

"Okay, so far," March answered, flinching as a flash of laser fire streaked past him, hitting the rocks behind and above them.

"The captain?" Jesse continued, figuring he would gain as much situational awareness as possible while waiting for the ostensible arrival of weapons.

"That I didn't see," came the reply. "There were so many blaster bolts flying, I just kept my head down and hoped for the best."

"But who's doing all the shooting?" Zinger asked. "Are you telling me it's the Austeniens?"

"That's exactly who it is," March replied.

In the midst of turmoil, Zinger managed to find a sly grin. "Now, that's my kind of religious order."

"Apparently, they would rather do this kind of fighting than allow the Doma to do whatever it was she was about to unleash," Jesse noted soberly.

"I think I would have liked to see that," Pitch said shrewdly. "Animal souls against a bunch of battle droids. What would that have looked like?"

"Whatever it might have entailed, it's not going to happen now," Jesse stated. "They talked her down from it, and now we've got a battle like any other on our hands. But that's good, because we know how to fight this kind of fight."

"But we need weapons," Pitch rejoined. "How long before he comes back with weapons? Should we try to get to some ourselves? There's a lot of them out there—"

As he was speaking, Au-Raphe came somersaulting over the piles of stones behind which they were hiding. In his arms, he was carrying at least half a dozen enemy blasters.

"I've already given some to your men at the other end," he announced curtly. "Distribute the rest of these, and I'll go get some more."

Jesse was about to speak, but Raphe was gone before the lieutenant could get a word out.

But what Rex's second-in-command had not been able to voice was right on the tip of Zinger's tongue. "That was impressive."

"And very Jedi-like," Pitch added.

"Yeah," Jesse concurred thoughtfully, but there was no time for contemplation. Referring to the weapons, he ordered, "Take one and get these others to whoever's nearby."

Zinger complied immediately and was off to deliver the remaining weapons.

Pitch adjusted the sights on the enemy weapon; and as he did so, he asked almost reluctantly, "You think Kix is okay?"

Jesse did not have to lie. "I think he's a hell of a lot safer than we are right now."

At least, he hoped so.

* * *

"Lay back or I will have someone come in and restrain you!" Sister Anaide insisted, trying to find the right amount of force to use on a man who was still far from recovered but whose adrenaline was giving him strength to push past any pain he might feel.

"I have to get down there," Kix protested. "My brothers—" he winced in pain but continued to try and swing his legs over the side of the bed. "I should be w-with them."

"You should stay here and let them do what they have to do," Anaide reprimanded. "You're in no condition to help them. You can't even get out of bed! You're only going to aggravate your injuries, and endanger your brothers' lives if you go down there. Now, lay back down or by the Creator, I will have you restrained and sedated! I mean what I say!"

Kix stopped fighting against her and sunk back down into the bed. "How did they know?" he groaned, raising a hand to his head. "How did they know we were here?"

"It doesn't matter," Anaide said. "What matters now is that we defeat them, and that we protect the souls."

"What souls?"

It only then occurred to the sister that Kix might not know of the Finirest and Doma's responsibilities. He had, after all, been in the healings rooms, insensible or slowly returning to sensibility; and it could be that his brothers had not told him about the Finirest.

"The animal souls that reside in the temple realm," she explained. "Did your brothers not tell you?"

"I—I think they mentioned something about it, but I was still pretty out of it," Kix replied, knitting his brows. "Some ritual they went to see."

"Until the gates of eternity are opened, the Doma—and others like her—are charged with protecting the souls of those waiting to enter," Anaide explained. "The Doma has been given animals souls to safeguard."

"If they're souls, why do they need protecting? How can they be injured?" Kix asked skeptically, using the conversation to distract his thoughts from the fact that his brothers might be, at that moment, fighting and dying, and he was not able to help them.

"Evil seeks out the good even after death, hoping to corrupt and destroy it, to turn it to darkness," she replied. "Until eternity is open, no soul is completely safe. But the Creator has given the Keepers wonderful powers to keep the evil at bay."

"And when does this eternity open?"

"No one knows."

"I've never seen a soul," Kix stated.

"So, you don't believe in them?" Anaide questioned.

"I didn't say that," Kix replied. "I only said I've never seen one. But I know they must exist." He appeared both deeply moved and deeply troubled by some thought that was going through his head. At last, he said, "When I look at my squad mates, I know there has to be something more than just flesh and bone, more than just personality or character. I've seen a lot of men—dead or dying—and I know that—I can sense that there's something more to them than just consciousness or . . . or brain function. They're more than a collection of their memories and experiences." He cut off abruptly and closed his eyes on a painful remembrance. "This is what got me in trouble on Kamino." He continued speaking but only to himself. "It's why they deemed me to be deficient, not fit to be a soldier." He drew in a deep, trembling breath. "It's why I've spent every day since then trying to prove them wrong."

"Who? Your squad mates?"

The sound of Anaide's voice pulled Kix back to the moment.

"No, not my squad mates. They had my back."

"Then who?"

"The Kaminoans." He hesitated. "And . . . others." He did not allow her time to inquire. "This is why I hate being here while they're out there fighting. Why I hate . . . letting the captain down."

"The captain?" Anaide was surprised, for it was the first time she'd heard him mention Rex.

Kix sidestepped her inquiry. "Can we find out what's going on, what's happening?"

"The brothers will let us know," she replied. "In the meantime, Au-Josat has ordered the healing rooms be evacuated, so we are moving everyone into the caverns. They will be coming soon to move you."

"I don't want to hide while my brothers are fighting," Kix protested.

Anaide was firm and perhaps a bit indelicate. "For you to go out there would only cause them more trouble. You can barely sit up, you can't even walk. You wouldn't even make it to the assembly hall. And if you did, they'd have to spend all their effort protecting you instead of fighting the enemy. Be reasonable. Do you think they would feel better with you in here or out there with them?"

Her words were _reasonable_. More than that, they were the only viable option.

Kix gave an almost imperceptible nod and searched for something to hang his hopes on. But the only feeble consideration to come to mind was that it was fortunate Flat Top was not with them. This way, Kix stood to lose three squad mates . . .

. . . instead of four.

* * *

Maree had told Rex she would head for the caverns – or that was the impression she had given him. But from the moment she had left the battlefield, she had made a direct line for the Taber.

Her reasons for going were many, and she was not sure which one took precedence. If she could not be at Rex's side, she would find a way to be useful still. And if she gave it any honest thought, she had to concede that it was a good thing Rex had sent her away. Away from the battlefield, she could clear her head and focus on her primary task – protecting the souls.

But other priorities pushed and squeezed their way to forefront, each in its turn. Her duty to protect the citizens of the Monastica. Her duty to protect those in the healing rooms. To protect the clones. To preserve any peace that still remained.

 _To protect Rex._

It was of no small alarm that that last duty played only just below the first duty of protecting the souls. It was continually pinging her consciousness and demanding attention. And she could not attribute such a thing to affection alone. She had allowed herself to fall in love with this man, and despite her petitions for assistance from her god and her own bold pronouncements that she had discovered the proper way to love him, she knew it would be folly at this point to deny that her words had been just that: words.

If the Creator had sent her a message, she had missed it – willingly or not; and now she was attempting to suppress a love that threatened, at that very moment, to draw her away from her life's purpose. If she turned around now and went back to him, it might be only to see him die.

She had to trust to the brothers to go to the clones' aid; and as she headed for the Taber, she passed many of them marshaling towards the assembly hall.

" _They will do their jobs, and you do yours."_

It might have been her own voice in her head, trying to convince and reassure.

But there was an element to it that seemed to come from without and spurred Maree on to run even faster.

When she came to the Taber, the northern entrance was blocked with rubble from the fallen parapet. She raced to the western entrance, where she still had to climb over debris, but the way was passable. Inside, there were hundreds of sisters and a few brothers digging for survivors. Maree searched for a part of exposed floor and immediately upon stepping down, a wave of relief went through her as the figure below came to life.

She climbed up onto a mound of fallen stone and timber. "Brothers! Sisters! Stop what you are doing!"

All eyes turned towards her.

"Unless you are tending at this moment to an injured person, you will stop what you are doing! Go to one of the lesser shrines and pray! Pray for protection! Pray for the defeat of this enemy! The dead will still be dead when this is over, but the brothers and the clones need our prayers right now!"

There was no questioning her command, and within a minute the Taber emptied out except for those tending the wounded.

Maree looked across the debris-strewn expanse and there, on the far side, the statue of Me'Ente Loge stood undamaged. She began moving towards it, mindless of the growing number of bruises, scrapes and gouges she was incurring. She had only one thought . . .

Falling prostrate before the statue, she implored though not with the usual humility of her petitions.

"My Lord, do something! You can stop this! Why don't you do something?! If this is retribution for my sins, then send your justice down on me, but spare the brothers and sisters! Spare the clones! I have been remiss in my duties, but I can't undo that! The Creator is forgiving! You are his servant! Can you not forgive my transgressions?! You must forgive them! You cannot be something opposed to the Creator! Grant me this, not for myself but for the others! What can I do to make you help us?"

"I have told you: the brothers will do their jobs."

The voice, clear and succinct, made Maree startle and push up onto her hands and knees in fear. Looking up, she saw, standing before the statue and in perfect clarity, the living spirit of Me'Ente Loge; and she was terrified.

This had never happened before. In all the hundreds of years since Maree had joined the order, the Messenger had only appeared during the Finirest. To see him now was petrifying, and she dropped to her knees and hid her face.

"Why do you hide your face from me?" he asked. "Do you fear me now, because I appear when you do not expect it?"

Maree could not find her voice to reply.

"You call upon me, and I have always answered, have I not?" the spirit went on. "I am come in this form so that you may know I have heard your plea. The Creator has heard your plea. You speak as if you wish to bargain or trade one thing for another. Child, you have still much to learn."

"I—I was going to use the souls," Maree stammered into her hands. Her entire body was shaking. What retribution had Me'Ente Loge come to deliver upon her for such a sacrilege?

"So you were. But you did not."

"I would have."

"They stopped you. Where you could not stop yourself, others did."

"I am no longer worthy to be a Keeper—"

"You will remain a Keeper. You are already forgiven. And you will know what to do when you see the result of your actions."

This cryptic statement brought Maree's head up, and she dared steal a glimpse at the veiled face before looking back at the floor.

"All will happen as it must. The signs will be given. You must not choose to ignore them. The past, present, and future are as one eternal present in the eyes of the Creator. This encounter—what you consider a chance encounter—has its place. Every seemingly insignificant event has its part to play." He paused, then repeated his first announcement. "The brothers will do their jobs." He went on. "The sisters will do their jobs. The clones will do their jobs. You do yours."

Fearing the spirit's imminent departure, Maree recovered her courage for one selfish moment.

"What about—what about—" she hesitated to complete the inquiry.

But Me'Ente Loge needed nothing more to know how the question ended.

"He is whatever role you allow him to play in your life," the Messenger said.

"But—but the Creator already knows what role that will be," Maree pressed. "I would rather know now."

"That is not the way of things," Me'Ente Loge chastised. "With love, there are always risks, Doma. But not all loves are the same. You know this."

She did know it. She had even said as much when giving Rex a dissertation on what it would mean for a Vervien or Austenien to fall in love. Her lofty, grandiose words had not been as easy to live by as they had been to speak.

She nodded, then in a meek voice, asked, "Will we survive this?"

"The moment will tell."

With that, the Messenger shot up in a dazzling streak of light

and disappeared.

Maree sat on her heels and took a moment to recollect herself.

A loud, shrill cry pierced through the sudden silence of the Taber, and looking up at the sky through the ruined dome, Maree saw something she had never seen before in the desert.

Soaring in the air was a bird. A huge bird.

A raptor. An eagle of some sort.

* * *

"We have to take out those cannons!" Rex shouted over the din. "Ogusta, do you have anything that will work against those turrets?"

"We have concussion grenades, but those aren't of any use unless we can get them inside the ship!" Ogusta replied. "They aren't strong enough to damage the guns, but they can probably damage the controls and whoever is manning them."

"Then we'll have to find a way inside," Rex said, squeezing off a shot that took down a super battle droid that was getting a bit too close for comfort.

"How are we going to do that?" Ogusta asked, wondering if all clones were as ready to chance the impossible as the captain. The idea of boarding the Separatist ship struck the Austenien as nothing short of lunacy.

"The Perfidio has one engineering design aspect that we can use to our advantage," Rex said, drawing closer to be heard better over the increasing noise of battle. "The main propulsion engines have injection hatches for supercharging the thrusters. Pressurized air through is shot through those hatches, and they're just large enough for a man to climb through. It's only air on the other side, and if we trip the hatch, it will depressurize the air and we can get into the tanks. A couple shots will split the seams in the tank, and that'll put us on the gangway below engineering."

Ogusta could barely absorb what he was hearing, but he knew there was no time to quibble over details or even question the likelihood of success. He offered only one suggestion. "Would it not be better to wait for my brothers to arrive?"

"We can't wait," Rex replied. "I can tell you they've already contacted their parent ship, and it won't be long before they send down reinforcements. They're probably already on their way."

"Then what good will it do for us to destroy the cannons?" Ogusta asked. "If more are coming, they will outnumber and overpower us."

He had a point, and Rex was not loathe to admit that even as he'd explained his plan, the ultimate objective behind it had evolved with every word. "I'm not planning on just destroying the cannons anymore, " Rex said in a grave voice. "Because you're right. We can't beat them in a ground battle."

"What—what do you have in mind?"

"I need Hardcase," he said, not answering the question but already shifting his focus to the next step.

"I'll get him," Ogusta offered and was off. He returned in short order with Hardcase following behind him.

"Captain, you wanted me?"

"I need you to go find two of Cody's pilots," Rex answered. "Get them over here and make it fast."

"Change in plans, Sir?" Hardcase asked.

Rex drew in a deep breath. "Yeah."

Hardcase knew better than ask any more questions. He had his mission, and there was no time to waste. He headed off around the perimeter using the bushes and rocky outcroppings as cover. More droids were pouring out of the ship, and the going was getting even more treacherous. At the rate the situation was deteriorating, he only hoped he could carry out his captain's orders before they were completely overrun.

* * *

Jesse cursed under his breath. "Damn Separatist piece of crap," he seethed, shaking the weapon in his hands. "A bow and arrow would be more accurate."

"Look out!"

It was Fives calling out from behind a tumble of destroyed wall several meters away. A blast from the ship's cannon hit the ruins behind them, sending a burst of debris out in all directions.

"We can't stay here much longer, Lieutenant!" Pitch shouted, his ears still ringing from the explosion. "They're tearing the place up around us!"

"You two try to make it over to where Fives and Echo are," Jesse replied. "I'll cover you."

Pitch and Zinger ran the ten or so meters, diving headfirst through a maelstrom of fire, with Pitch executing a clumsy shoulder-roll and careening into Fives, knocking him into Echo, who was almost pushed out from behind the rocks. As he came up, he looked immediately back to where Jesse was still crouching down behind his rapidly disappearing cover.

"Come on, Lieutenant!" Pitch called out as the four of them began laying down rapid fire.

Jesse broke free and began to run, but he had only gone a few steps when an explosion blew him off his feet, tossing him clear past the others' hiding place.

"Jesse!" Pitch cried out, His gut reaction was to run to his brother's aid, but Echo held him back.

"Gernot and LR are closer, they'll get him!"

Even as Echo spoke, Gernot had already reached out, grabbed Jesse by the wrist, and was hauling him to safety.

Beyond them, Pitch could see Hardcase advancing, fearless as ever; and for reasons he had never truly understood, he felt better to see his squad mate approaching, breathing fire, and ready to sacrifice his own life, so long as he got to take fair numbers of the enemy with him.

It was part of the dynamic of Saber Squad. Jesse's presence was calming and reassuring. Hardcase, on the other hand, was inspiring and made killing the enemy look easy. He could get the fire burning in his brothers' veins, and that was what Pitch needed at the moment; for seeing Jesse lying injured—apparently unconscious and not moving—Pitch's need for action, for some way to redirect his thoughts and energies, was filled by the sight of Hardcase coming to offer assistance.

But then Hardcase stopped where Bounce and Tip were both hunkered down. He was clearly trading words with them – more than just encouragement or taking a report. And within seconds, the three of them began sketching their way back around the perimeter.

" _Something's going on,"_ Pitch said to himself. _"Fek and all, whatever it is, I hope it works."_

* * *

Rex was surprised at how quickly Hardcase made it back with the two pilots, and he did not waste a moment getting down to business.

"You both know something about Perfidios?"

Both men nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"Can either of you fly one?"

"We both can, Sir."

"Either of you familiar with the propulsion systems?"

"Like the back of my hand, Sir," Tip replied.

"I think we both know enough to be dangerous," Bounce added.

"Good, then we've got a job to do," Rex stated. He looked to Hardcase. "Get with Ogusta and watch for my signal. We're going around the back of the ship. When you see me, I need you to lay down heavy cover fire."

"What are you going to do, Sir?"

"We're going inside through the afterburner tanks."

Hardcase looked befuddled, too stunned to even respond.

But both Bounce and Tip, as pilots, knew exactly what the captain was talking about.

"We're taking her up," Rex went on. "And with any luck, we'll make sure no Separatist reinforcements get here."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you, Sir?" Hardcase asked. "You know you're going to run into opposition once you get inside."

"It looks like they've emptied out most of their troops," Rex replied. "More help should be arriving, if Ogusta is right. Just try to hold things together down here as long as you can."

"Yes, Sir."

Rex turned to his pilots. "Let's go."

* * *

"Kriffing . . . agh! Help me with this damned thing!" Bounce was not a weakling, but faced with the hatch rotator lever inside one of the Perfidio's main engines, he could not get enough leverage behind him to turn it to the open position.

Tip maneuvered awkwardly to get his hands on the lever, as well. And together they pulled with all their strength. Behind them, Rex kept an eye out for the enemy.

They were at least ten yards deep into the engine foil, a cylinder barely high enough for them to stand up. The injection hatch was on the left side of the tube, a round door half a meter in diameter. It was possible for a man to climb through, but not if he was wearing chest and shoulder armor. Bounce and Tip had already stripped down to their body gloves above the waist, but they had not expected the hatch to be quite so difficult to open.

At last and slowly, the lever began to give way and the hatch creaked open, the pressurized air behind it escaping in a single abrupt hiss.

Rex slipped past them and stuck his head and shoulders in through the opening.

There were the seams in along the far end of the tank.

" _Just like they taught in ARC school,"_ Rex noted, allowing a satisfied grin to flash briefly across his face.

He aimed the confiscated Copian blaster and fired off two precision shots that weakened the seams enough for him to kick out the tank wall with his foot, then he motioned for Tip and Bounce to follow him after they re-sealed the hatch behind them.

They emerged onto a catwalk in the bowels of the ship, surrounded on all sides by everything it took to make such a ship operational. Generation and spinning tanks, kilometers of ductwork and even more kilometers of wiring. Old-fashioned turbines and hydraulic systems. Cooling and communications lines.

And over all, the smell of hyper-ionization and liquid tenphone.

"Good thing they didn't light up those engines while we were in there," Tip said with dark humor.

"I just hope they didn't hear the blaster shots," Bounce remarked. "What now, Captain?"

"We're heading up to the bridge," Rex answered. "Once we get up there, Tip, you need to jam communications first thing. We don't want them signaling the main ship that this one has been commandeered. Once we've got the bridge under control, we're going straight out. The goal is to take out the main ship. If anything else is on its way down, we'll just have to trust the others to do deal with it. The Austeniens were sending more men to help."

"What if they have a whole fleet up there?" Bounce asked.

"It didn't look that way when they came after us before," Rex replied. "Only one ship showed up shadowing us from Pylotta." A pause. "We have to make this a quick take-over. If I'm right and they've sent most of their troops out to fight, there should only be a skeleton crew and security aboard. If we don't do this in the blink of an eye, they'll call them back in, and we'll be trapped." He looked at the enemy weapon in his hands. "These things have a repeat setting. Just go in and blast everything that moves."

The two men nodded and as they moved out behind the 501st captain, Tip leaned in close to whisper in Bounce's ear. "Probably should've brought Hardcase."

* * *

Jesse raised his hand to his head. At least, he thought he did. It felt like his arm was moving, but the way things were spinning around him, he couldn't be sure.

"Lieutenant, stay down."

That was . . . Gernot's voice? Keeper? It might even be Ajax. The three of them sounded so much alike, down to intonation and dialectic quirks.

" _Huh, that's what happens to all of them who end up getting trained by Bendi-Kah. For a bounty hunter, he sure sounded like a dandy. Not that they sound like that—Force knows they don't act like it—but did they have to pick up his accent?"_

"You're injured, Sir," came the unspecified voice again. "Just lie still a bit. We've still got some good protection here."

" _Protection? Wait, that sound—that's blaster fire!"_ His memory cleared in an instant, even if his head was still foggy. He tried to sit up. "Are we still under attack?"

"Yes, Sir. Th'enemy's still comin'."

That was definitely Gernot's heavy lilt and lyrical tone.

Jesse struggled to sit up. Gernot spared a moment to help him.

"Where—where's my weapon?"

"Went flyin' when you did, Sir," came the reply. "We haven't got na' extras."

Jesse fought down the urge to retch and through sheer force of will made a show of authority. "What's our status, Specialist?"

"Holdin' 'em back so far, Sir," Gernot said. "The holy men have brought a lot of weapons to bear. Word's gone round the cap'n is gon' steal the ship and try to cut off reinforcements."

Jesse's eyes widened. "What?"

"Yeah, n' he took Tip and Bounce with 'im."

The lieutenant tried to sort through the crush of thoughts that poured into his head, making the already existing ache balloon into a thundering pound. "Did he say how he was going to do that?"

Gernot cocked his head to one side. "No, Sir. But you know the cap'n. E'll find a way."

Jesse closed his eyes for a moment. "Yes, he will." When he looked up again, it was with renewed resolve. "And so will we." A pause as he surveyed his surroundings. "Now, all I need is blaster."


	33. Chapter 33

_**Dear Reader, Thanks to my reviewers! It's nice to see such thoughtful comments! This is just a short chapter to go into the weekend. I have a serious rewrite to do of the upcoming section, so I plan to relax and edit over the weekend. I also wanted to point out that this story takes place fairly early in the war, and the characters views will change as time goes by. I still see Rex as this eager, brash captain who moved up the ranks very fast and has . . . well, maybe something of a big head (but a big heart to go along with it). He isn't the wizened senior captain of Umbara yet, so please keep that in mind! Also, FYI and if anyone cares, I used to work for a F-16 Squadron, and my pilots (all of them) are based off real people I knew - so I hope they seem realistic. Peace and I hope you enjoy! CS**_

Chapter 33 Mistaken Identity

" _They were our own blokes. We'd come that close to killing them. If Sergeant McDaniel hadn't seen their reflection in that mirror, we'd have killed our own blokes."_

Ken Clarke, Memoir of Operation Market Garden

* * *

Rex had been right about the ship being almost empty.

The entire complement of droids had been sent out to fight an unexpectedly obstinate enemy, leaving only a dozen Copians to both man the bridge and defend against the unlikely attempt to take the ship from within.

But _unlikely_ was what Rex did best. He'd learned from the master, after all. Well, maybe he hadn't learned how to be unpredictable from Skywalker; but the Jedi general had certainly played a key role in helping him perfect the technique. Rex had found that he had only to sit back and observe to gain invaluable knowledge on how to confound the enemy – while confounding his own chain-of-command only slightly less so.

Were lives not at stake, Rex would have relished the opportunity to test his wits and skill against any other tactical mind. But there had been few _tests_ since Kamino – or more accurately, since ARC training. Every encounter since then had been a true life-and-death situation, and Rex took every mission seriously – even the ones he didn't like, such as the reconnaissance on Pylotta or the occasional diplomatic escort duty.

Rex preferred to be in the thick of things; and fortunately, he had a general who usually—though not always—accommodated him.

General Skywalker would be very pleased with him now, were he here to see the ease with which Rex, Tip and Bounce had passed through the underbelly of the enemy ship, coming up just outside the bridge, and dispatching a crew that had been taken completely by surprise.

The Copians out of the way, Tip and Bounce immediately sat down at the controls and began making preparations for lift-off. Both men, as pilots, had extensive training in the layout and operation of dozens of enemy ship classes. The Perfidio on which they now found themselves was identical to the training bridges on which they had spent so many hours being drilled and tested on every toggle, every screen, every button, every lever until their eyes had glazed over and their dreams had turned to nightmares in which every image was the interior of an enemy ship . . .

Tip, as previously instructed, set about jamming communications, and Bounce had them airborne before Rex had even raised the gangway.

Rex did not know the two pilots as well as he knew Three Point or Zinger, but seeing them in action now—steady, professional, utterly focused—he was impressed, although he knew he should have expected as much from any soldier of Cody's. The Commander was even more demanding of his troops than Rex, but in a very different way. Cody took pride in his men's actions; but unlike Rex, not as a reflection of himself or his leadership. He was proud of them for their own accomplishments, their own drive and conviction, their parts in the victories of the whole. He wanted his troops to be the best, not for his own sake; but because the best won wars. And if they happened to shine a bit of honor and glory in his direction, then he would not deny the stoking of his pride.

Rex, whose acquaintance with the two had formed only the filmy opinions that Bounce was a jokester and Tip a bit of an egomaniac, was seeing for the first time and without the Cody filter, just how capable these two men truly were.

Perhaps a bit too capable.

"Captain, I suggest that we put down at a safe distance and let you off," Bounce announced matter-of-factly, as if this recommendation was just another item on a pre-orbital checklist.

Rex was surprised at the idea, but he replied with equal nonchalance. "That's not the plan. Head straight for that ship."

"Sir, I know it's not the plan, but they need you down there," Bounce persisted. "Tip and I can handle the mission from here. We know how to rig this crate so she'll blow sky-high. But the 501st can't afford to lose you, and I think the situation on the ground needs you more than we do. With both Sixer and Jesse down, they need an officer."

"They've got Zinger—"

"Zinger's a pilot, like us," Tip interrupted. "He can fly circles around anyone, but he's not a ground-pounder, Captain. He's not infantry."

"They can handle it," Rex pushed back. "It's more important that we stop any reinforcements from getting here. And if we're successful, they'll only have to hold off the enemy a little while longer."

"Captain, we both must protest—"

"Listen, we've got a big enough job on our hands without you two thinking you can debate me about this," Rex stated, the authority coming through in his voice. "There is no debate. We're committed to doing this, so let's make sure we do it right." A pause. "Besides, I don't plan on this being a one-way trip."

Now, both pilots turned to regard him curiously for a moment.

"Sir?"

"This bucket has escape pods, right? Well, I don't plan to be on board when she takes out that Dreadnaught," came the reply, spoken with a sinister smile.

Now, Bounce and Tip both nodded appreciatively.

"I like the sound of that," Tip said.

"But it's not going to be easy," Rex warned. "They're going to wonder why there are no communications coming from the ship. They'll probably send out a tractor beam and hold us at a distance until they can figure out if the ship is safe."

"Do you have a plan to get around all that, Captain?" Bounce asked.

"I have an idea, but I've only ever known a Jedi to pull it off," Rex replied.

"General Skywalker?"

Rex nodded.

"This oughta be good," Tip remarked.

"If we're able to approach at the right angle, they won't be able to pull us in using just one tractor beam," Rex explained. "They'll have to switch from one to another as they maneuver us towards one of the hangars. There's a window when the two tractor beams cross and they cancel each other out, but there's usually only a split-second. But if we time it right, we'll be able to break free and we'll be close enough to do a burn and get her into the hangar, or at least close enough to the hull to do some serious damage. We'll have to get our asses out of there at the last second."

"And if they hold us at bay and do a scan? If they discover us?"

Rex was curt. "Then I hope we'll be remembered well." He put a hand on Tip's shoulder. "Go below and start rigging the drives for detonation." Then to Bounce, "Start pulling telemetry. Once we're past the atmosphere and have a visual, we're going to have to eyeball it the whole way. We don't want to send out any squawks that might draw their attention."

"Yes, Captain. Where are you going?"

"To make sure we have a way out of here."

* * *

Hardcase had moved back from covering his captain's infiltration of the ship and was now hunkering down behind the remains of what had once surely been a very grand stone fountain. He watched as the Perfidio lifted off and sailed away over the trees to the north.

"Good luck, Captain," he said under his breath.

Twenty meters away to his left, he caught sight as Au-Ogusta broke from his hiding place and made the short dash to join him. "The brothers are here!" he announced.

"Great! Now, we can start tearing these clankers apart," he said, sneaking off a burst over the top of the fountain wall. "Just keep them on this side! We don't want to get caught in circular fire!"

Ogusta was about to go pass the word along when a strange sound met his ears and he stopped in his tracks.

"What is that? Are more ships coming?"

Hardcase strained to hear over the sound of blaster fire.

And then he, too, could make out the droning of repulsor-lift engines, the hallmark of the workhorse. If he could have gone to the Rathana Heavy Engineering shipyards then and there, he would have found whoever was responsible for the creation of such a tell-tale voice and kissed their feet.

For he knew the sound of deliverance, the sound of a gunship, and he felt now as if victory had never been far away.

A moment later, a squadron of the ungainly things came rumbling into view overhead.

"Fek and all," Hardcase grinned. "Maybe there is a god."

* * *

Jammed communications meant even the ship's intercom system was disrupted.

And Bounce didn't have time to both unscramble the signal and pilot the ship.

So, he chose the old-fashioned way.

"Captain Rex!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "We've got a problem!"

Rex had already been on his way back from checking out the escape pods, but when he heard Bounce calling out to him, he quickened his pace.

"What is it?" he asked, entering the bridge.

"Check out the short-range scanner," Bounce replied curtly. "We have incoming."

Rex leaned over the scanner, chose one of the approaching dashes, and stretched it. Data populated in the identification square. "Those are gunships!"

"Looks like help's arrived," Bounce said. "And we're cooked."

"Damn it all! Have they seen us?"

"You know they have, Captain," Bounce replied.

Rex worked furiously to unscramble the communications signal. "What frequency were our comms last operating on? They changed it before Pylotta."

Bounce searched his memory. "One-two-seven . . . point seven? One-two-eight? Captain, I don't remember. And chances are they've changed it again since then."

"Where is Moog when we need him?" Rex grimaced.

"They're firing! Two air-to-air missiles!"

"Evasive maneuvers! Try to get us on the ground!" Rex ordered as he continued with the communications.

Bounce veered right, heading out over the sand and increasing speed; but the Perfidio was sluggish. "Tip must already be rerouting the power. We're not going to get any speed here, Captain."

"Go belly-up," Rex ordered.

"Sir?"

"Go belly-up!" he repeated. "It's like a—a universal sign of surrender!"

But it was already too late. The two missiles hit their target, one in the very same engine foil through which Rex and his team had entered; the other just above the scanner array dome on the top of the vessel.

The ship lurched to the side.

"Our boys are good shots," Bounce said with a sort of gallows humor. "We're going down, Captain. And I don't think I can pull off a cleaner landing than Three Point."

"So, it's a good thing we're not coming in as hot?" Rex replied in kind, ribbing the pilot in an attempt to hide his own fear that they might not be as lucky with this crash as the one that brought them to Bertegad in the first place. "I can't fekking believe this."

Bounce raised an askance eyebrow at the captain's use of foul language. It was well known that Rex rarely used _colorful_ language – at least, not in front of his troops.

"We survive all this, just to be shot down by our own forces," the captain grumbled. "Just try and get us down before they hit us again—"

Even as he spoke, another blast rocked the ship.

"I hope Tip is holding onto something down there," Bounce remarked. "You might want to strap in, too, Captain."

Rex did as he suggested, muttering to himself the whole time. "My entire military career is going to be a collection of the crashes I've survived."

"Better than the _one_ you don't survive," came the rejoinder. "I'll try to make sure this isn't it."

Rex glanced sideways at him with a droll expression. "It damned well better not be."

* * *

A line of gunships touched down on the far side of the wood behind where Hardcase and the others were holding their ground; and a moment later, Hardcase heard a familiar voice at his side.

"Looks like we got here just in time."

Hardcase looked over to see his commanding general, and the way Skywalker's gaze went out confidently over the battlefield brought a tacit veil of relief down over the anxieties and apprehensions of the past hour.

"Good to see you, General. I was starting to wonder if you'd ever show up," Hardcase quipped.

Anakin smiled a sneer. "You know better than that, Hardcase. I wouldn't miss a second."

"How did you find us? Did Commander Cody get through to you?"

"He did," came the reply. "He's around here somewhere. We already picked him up. Where's Rex?"

"He—" Hardcase ducked as a near-miss blasted away another portion of the fountain wall. "He took a couple men and they took the enemy ship to try and stop reinforcements from coming—"

Anakin felt his stomach twist into knots. "When?"

"They left just a couple minutes ago."

"What were they flying?" The general's manner was curt and tinged with dread.

"A Perfidio—"

"Master . . . "

Hardcase recognized this voice, as well. He had not realized Commander Tano was behind him.

General Skywalker wasted no time. "Ahsoka, stay here with Hardcase and wait for Obiwan to get in place. I'm going to find that ship—"

"Master, wait!" Ahsoka protested. " _You_ are needed _here_! I'll take one of the gunships and go find Rex!"

Anakin hesitated a moment, but he really could not argue with her. It was true that his presence would be of more use on the battlefield than off searching for his captain. And besides . . . Rex was tenacious. Anakin could even envision him surviving the crash just for the bragging rights he would earn.

"Go on," he gave his permission. "Be careful."


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34 After the Battle

" _And now, we wait."_

 _Moment Aflame  
_ Alonso Centaire

* * *

Maree did not have to wonder at what she was looking at.

The meaning of the eagle's presence was clear.

For the time being, she could do nothing more than hope that this was the only one. Any action would have to come later, for almost as soon as she saw the eagle, there came roaring into view through the destroyed dome, a whole flock of flying things.

But these were not birds. Or rather, they were – but of a completely different sort. These birds were made of metal.

Warships – dozens of them.

And Maree had no way of knowing if they were Separatist or Republic. Seeing only the underbellies, she could not tell; and even if she'd been able to see the ships from a fuller angle, she still would have been no wiser, for ship identification was nowhere in her realm of need-to-know.

What she did know was that the ships were headed towards the fighting. She struggled for a moment as to whether she should return to the battle or remain where she was. Rex's command had been clear, but she was not one of his troops to be ordered about. Her heart pounded with an urgent desire to return to the fighting and see what was happening.

But Me'Ente Loge's words had been compelling. _"The brothers will do their jobs. The sisters will do their jobs. The clones will do their jobs. You do yours."_

And her job, at the moment, was not to race back to the battle. It was not to tend to the injured. It was not to coordinate any kind of resistance or rescue efforts.

It was to pray and lead the others in praying with her.

Her gaze went once more to the eagle, and another of Me'Ente Loge's statements reverberated in her mind.

" _You will know what to do when you see the result of your actions."_

There, settling on the ruined parapets, was one result.

Perhaps the gravest.

"I won't make that mistake again," Maree said out loud, as if speaking the words would cement her conviction. "I will be the servant you have asked me to be."

* * *

"General Kenobi!" Little Ride exclaimed, startled by the sudden arrival of his Jedi commanding officer.

The general had appeared—as Jedi so often did—without warning and even without a clear indication of where he'd come from. As far as Little Ride was concerned, Kenobi could have vaulted in over the smoking ruins of the assembly hall or dropped hundreds of meters from a hovering gunship. There was simply no telling.

"Welcome to the party, Sir," Jesse added grimly.

"And what a welcome," General Kenobi replied with his usual cool manner, a demeanor that was almost dismissive of the danger surrounding him, but a demeanor that gave his men confidence and enabled them to keep their focus on the enemy, even when the odds weren't good.

"Cody and the others made it?" Little Ride asked immediately, concern for his battalion mates taking precedence for a moment. He hadn't forgotten Admiral Vrehnke's assertion that Cody and the others had been killed.

"They did," Obiwan replied.

"I knew Vrehnke had to be lying," Little Ride breathed. "The commander was too smart to fall to him."

"Yes, well, I see someone here was too smart, as well," the general noted. "Who killed him?"

"We don't know, Sir," Jesse replied. "We didn't see where the shot came from."

"Unh, no matter, I suppose," Obiwan said. "A good deed well done no matter who fired the shot." A pause. "Looks like we've still got a fair number of enemy to eliminate. Shall we get to it, gentlemen?"

"We're right behind you, General."

* * *

"Sergeant Denal, grab five or six men and come with me!" Ahsoka ordered as she backtracked her way to where more gunships were still unloading their trooper cargo.

The sergeant complied, snagging the six men nearest to his position; and together, they followed the commander through the sparse wood.

Ahsoka scampered aboard a gunship that had just offloaded its troops. She hit the comm panel. "Pilot, this is Commander Tano, I need you to take us out on a rescue mission."

"Yes, Ma'am," came the crisp, no-nonsense reply, and Ahsoka could tell right away that it was BB at the controls. BB was the shortened version of the clone's nickname, and it was a nickname that was never spoken in its entirety – at least, not in mixed company. BB was mainly an extraction pilot whose specialty was executing rescue missions that often involved getting in and out under enemy fire. He was unflappable and fearless, earning him his moniker. The first "B" stood for Blue. The second "B" for a part of his anatomy, the utterance of which was best left to the wonderful world of male bonding and the occasional bawdiness of warriors existing in a world that was primarily without women.

For her own part, Ahsoka thought it was a funny and endearing nickname. And in fact, she liked BB very much. Very much, indeed. He made her feel more adult, more worthy of the respect afforded to a person in a position of leadership. He was the only clone to call her 'Ma'am' instead of 'Sir'; and although she could not account for it, she liked the way it made her feel. She was, after all, a woman—well, almost a woman. Maybe not a ma'am yet, but definitely not a sir! Customs and courtesies aside, Ahsoka never understood why female officers were referred to with a masculine title.

And as far as BB was concerned, Ahsoka's appreciation went perhaps a little bit beyond mere soldierly camaraderie. She admired a great many things about him, from his serious nature to his dry wit, from his steel nerves to his ability to listen in thoughtful silence when the situation warranted it.

He lacked only one thing.

He wasn't Rex.

Rex could call her 'sir' all day long. He could call her 'kid'. He could be patronizing. He could be over-protective. He could gripe over her decisions across a dozen star systems. But none of that mattered to Ahsoka, for in her eyes, he was everything a man should be: devoted to his men, dedicated to General Skywalker and the Republic, and determined to do his best in every instance. He cared about his men far more than he was willing to acknowledge – even to himself. He was honest to a fault and had a magnanimity that often puzzled people who did not know him well. Like BB, he, too, was fearless – or if he had fears, he never allowed it to show. He always went first, whether into or out of danger. He was confident, a bit vain, but unpredictable enough to pop a few surprises when she least expected it.

Ahsoka knew that he would always be there for her. He'd always have her back. He'd always support her publicly, even when disagreeing with her privately. He held no animus towards her for outperforming him on the battlefield – she was, after all, a Jedi. Almost a Jedi.

Yes, she was chronologically older than he was; but she could not even pretend that they were equals from a maturity standpoint.

Rex was a man and behaved like one. Ahsoka was still a teenaged girl . . . and behaved like one.

Still, she was not willing to label what she felt for the captain as a crush; and properly so, for it was not the sort of girlish whimsy that came and went with the changing of the seasons. There was an enduring aspect to her affection that went beyond physical attraction, beyond shared dangers and hardships. There was something about Rex that she loved, but she had yet to put her finger on it. She allowed him to occupy her thoughts more than she should, but she could not feel embarrassed by that fact. Quite the contrary, she wondered that any woman would not feel the same way about him as she did. It was her youth and inexperience holding sway, but such a love—artless and sprung from youth—often has no reason behind it. It comes as it will, with the power to color every scene in hues that exist only in the lover's eye. Such intensity tends to make for a fleeting passion, foremost one moment and forgotten the next.

But Ahsoka's love for Rex was different. There was a purity to it, and it was hardly fleeting. It was that love, undefined as it was, that had driven her to insist she lead the search for him now. And if what she discovered was tragic, she wanted to be the first to know and to see for herself. She could not bear the idea of someone telling her bad news – not where Rex was concerned.

Then again, she could barely conceive of any possible scenario where Rex would not prevail. He'd beaten the odds so many times.

Her attention snapped back to the moment as Denal and his team hopped on board.

"Lift off," Ahsoka ordered.

"Heading, ma'am?" BB asked from the cockpit.

"North," she replied. "We're looking for the Perfidio that was shot down."

"Finishing it off, Commander?" This from Denal.

Ahsoka grimaced. "No, Sergeant. Rescue mission." A pause. "Rex and two others took the ship up to try and take out the enemy."

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Denal spoke lightly, clearly in an attempt to dispel the gloom. "Sounds like something the captain would do."

"He becomes more like my master every day," Ahsoka replied, but there was no humor in her voice. "I hope that's a good thing."

* * *

Anakin stepped over the super battle droid he had just dropped. "Looks like that's the last of them," he announced.

"We'd better make a sweep through the area," Obiwan replied, erring on the side of caution. "Some of them may have sneaked off."

Anakin turned to another one of his lieutenants, a clone named Slinger. "Lieutenant, take two squads and make a sweep to the north and east. Send two more to sweep south and west."

"Yes, General!"

He then turned to Au-Ogusta who was standing nearby with Hardcase.

"Many thanks to you and your brothers," he said with a respectful nod. "I wouldn't have thought that religious brothers could be such good fighters."

"It is always our last resort," Ogusta replied. "Ah, here comes Au-Mikiel. He is really the one you should be thanking. It has always been his philosophy that a man of peace must also be prepared to wield the sword when peace fails."

As Au-Mikiel approached, Anakin found himself gazing at the man with genuine admiration. Had he not known that he was looking at a holy man, he would have taken him for a warrior. There was nothing soft or delicate about him. He was begrimed with dirt and blast residue, his clothing torn and stained. And he toted a formidable piece of hardware over his shoulder.

"Master Jedi," he said, dipping his head. "Creator be praised that you made it to our aid in time."

Hardcase spoke up. "General Skywalker, General Kenobi, this is Fels Au-Mikiel. He's the head of the Austenien Order."

Both Anakin and Obiwan showed the proper deference.

"I'm just glad we weren't too late," Obiwan stated. "Fortunately, we were already enroute to this area in search of our missing ship when Cody's transmission came in."

"And not a moment too soon," Anakin added. "We had no idea where to begin our search. It might have taken us weeks or even months to get to this planet."

"It's a great relief to know Au-Trava and your men made it across the desert," Mikiel said, and the relief of which he spoke also came through in his voice. "After the Separatists' first visit here, I feared the worst, that they would find them in the desert."

"Apparently, they did," Obiwan put forth, "But they managed to escape. They can fill you in on the details once we've secured the area." A pause. "There won't be any more troops coming down from the main ship. Admiral Yularen sent word that the Dreadnaught's been destroyed. We just want to make sure none of the enemy sneaked off into the surrounding area."

Mikiel nodded. "Good, good." He looked to Ogusta. "Behind those rocks there, you will find Au-Ypres and Au-Stogne standing guard over Au-Gehen. Instruct them to take him back to a holding cell. Where is the Doma?"

"Captain Rex ordered her back to the caves," Ogusta replied.

"Send someone to bring her here and then round up as many brothers as you can find to help with the rescue efforts. Send word to the healing houses to dispatch mobile teams."

"Yes, First Servant," Ogusta replied, then daring to ask, "Why is Au-Gehen being put in a holding cell?"

"He was our betrayer. He set up this entire thing in order to turn the clones over to the Separatists."

Ogusta was stunned. "Im-impossible."

"It's true. He admitted it."

It took Ogusta a moment to come to himself, but then he drew in a deep breath. "I will do as you have instructed me." With that, he was off.

Obiwan spoke up. "Cody told us the Doma is the spiritual leader here."

"She is head over both orders," Mikiel replied.

Just then, Jesse appeared, a messy abrasion on one side of his head and a deep gouge in his chin. His armor was streaked with blood and dirt. But he did not appear to be seriously injured.

"Generals."

"Lieutenant," Anakin acknowledged. "Are you okay? You look like you've taken a few hits."

"I'll survive, Sir," Jesse replied. "I can give you a situation brief."

"Let's hear it."

Jesse then went through the key points of what had happened since arriving at the assembly hall that morning, ending with, "There are hundreds of children and teachers trapped in there. And I have no idea how many might have been injured or trapped when they struck the Taber."

"Go do a headcount of your men," Anakin replied. "Report back to me in five."

"Yes, General," Jesse snapped off a salute.

As he watched him go, Anakin wondered what the numbers would be when he came back. And would those numbers decrease by three when Ahsoka returned from her mission?

* * *

"Wreckage left, zero-two-zero for fifteen," BB announced.

Ahsoka and the others immediately trained their vision in the direction.

"I see it," Denal stated. "There's a lot of smoke but I don't see any flames. It's still mostly intact. That's a good sign."

Ahsoka's pulse was racing. Denal was right, and the crash site was not a complete disaster. She and Rex had been in much worse crashes before. There was every reason to believe he was still alive.

BB brought the gunship down at a safe distance.

Ahsoka was on the ground before the ship even touched down.

After almost three weeks of uncertainty, of not seeing Rex, not knowing where he was or if he was even still alive, she couldn't stave off her anxiety one more minute. She had to find him. She had to know if he was alright.

She had to put her fear to rest.

* * *

"Doma, this is General Kenobi, General Skywalker," Au-Mikiel introduced Maree to the two men.

Immediately, Anakin felt something both powerful and unfamiliar in the presence of the woman now standing before him – a woman who, like Au-Mikiel, managed to carry herself with authority and gravity, despite her disheveled appearance. She had elements of softness and firmness in her temperament – he could sense that much before she even said a word. She possessed a strength, a power, the likes of which he had never before come into contact with; and it was not the amorphous power of will or body. It was a supernatural power, though whether she was its source or merely its vessel, Anakin could not decipher.

And he needed no more than a stolen glance at Obiwan to see that his former master was perceiving the very same indications.

"Master Jedi," Maree acknowledged, and all three of them exchanged shallow bows.

"We are at your service, my lady," Anakin stated. "I only wish we had gotten here sooner."

"I thank the Creator you were able to get here at all," she replied.

"The Separatists have been defeated, and we're just making some final sweeps now to secure the area. We've got two combat engineering battalions on the way down to help with the search and rescue efforts. I've also asked for a field medical team to be sent down."

"Your help is greatly appreciated," Maree replied.

Hardcase, who was sticking close to his general's side out of fear that the enemy might have one or two still at large, interjected. "Generals, it might be best to leave the medical side of things to the brothers and sisters. They're a healing order, and their skills are way beyond ours."

Obiwan was proper. "This is your land and your place. We will defer to you in these matters, Doma Maree."

"Hardcase is right," Maree replied. "We are well-equipped to handle the injured. But any assistance your medical personnel would care to offer will be welcome. And I think it's best if your men are in charge of the rescue operation. I'm sure you have equipment better suited to that task than we do."

"I promise we'll do everything we can, Doma Maree," Anakin assured her.

"Our fleet commander, Admiral Yularen, is contacting the Military Defense Committee back on Coruscant even as we speak, to request emergency measures be put in place to render assistance and protection during recovery activities. They will take the matter before the Senate; but in the meantime, our battle group will remain in Bertegad's orbit," Obiwan informed her. "With the approval of your planetary government, of course."

"Do they even know what's gone on out here?" Mikiel asked. "We have always existed independent of any nation-state or government. While I am sure they will approve of your presence, I wouldn't think their agreement necessary."

"We don't like to ruffle any feathers, if we can help it," Obiwan replied. "A little courtesy goes a long way."

Mikiel smiled. "So does prayer." He looked to Maree. "Would you not agree, Doma?"

Maree was surveying the destruction surrounding her on all sides. She was little concerned with the formalities of inter-planetary visitors, Republic, Separatist or otherwise. It would have been easy, at that moment, to give into despair, to be frozen into perpetual mourning. But that would not do.

There were lives to be saved, wreckage to be moved, and an accounting of all the damage to be taken. This was no time to be overcome with grief. There was work to be done. Urgent work.

At that moment, Jesse returned from taking account of his men.

"Looks like everyone made it, Sir," he reported. "Sixer's been taken back to the healing rooms. I sent Sempe to check on him. Lots of bruises and cuts, but nothing life-threatening."

"Where is Captain Rex?" Maree asked.

"I sent my padawan out to search for him," Anakin replied.

"To search for him? He's missing?" There was some small change in Maree's voice that betrayed the worry this announcement had wrought in her.

"We didn't know he was in the enemy's ship when we shot it down," Anakin said.

Maree blanched. "Shot down? What—what are you—what happened after I left here?"

It was Hardcase who filled in the details. "The captain came up with a plan to take the enemy ship up to try and destroy the Dreadnaught, so no more reinforcements could be sent down. He took Bounce and Tip, and they managed to sneak onboard and take control of the ship."

"But when they got airborne, we didn't know they had commandeered the ship," Anakin explained. "We thought they were the enemy, and we shot them down."

The veiled expression that crept into the Doma's face was unmistakable to Anakin. It was fear. But not the kind of stark fear that rises up in the face of a life-threatening situation. Not the vague and general fear that hovers on the outskirts of uncertainty. No, this fear was specific, focused, and being kept under very tight control.

" _It's Rex. She's worried about Rex,"_ Anakin said to himself. Of course, he had no reason to think such a thing. The Doma had made only the most basic of inquiries after him, and she was not giving any indication that her fear was due any more to the fact that Rex was involved than the fact of the crash itself involving clones.

Still, he was certain he was right.

And that raised a whole slew of other potential questions and issues, none of which he could afford to entertain right now.

"But Commander Tano—my padawan—she's out searching for them now," Anakin repeated. "She's very capable."

Maree nodded, then with the perfect manners of centuries of practiced etiquette, she said, "I will go check on what is being done to get to the children while we wait for your engineers to arrive." She turned and ran full-tilt into Cody.

"Commander!"

Somehow, the sight of the commander not only made her happy and grateful for his safety, but it offered a sense of comfort and reassurance. The Doma even went so far as to give him a hug.

"I had faith you would make it," she said.

"Your faith was well-founded," Cody replied. "We owe it all to Au-Trava. He was brilliant."

"Is he come back safely, as well?"

"We're all back safely. He got us all through it," Cody said. "And believe me, there was quite an adventure near by the end, but that'll have to wait for another time. I need to see General Kenobi."

Maree nodded. "I praise the Creator for your safe return."

Anakin watched this brief exchange, trying to discern what kind of religious figure he was dealing with. His wrist comm buzzed.

"Master, this is Ahsoka."

Anakin was surprised at the degree to which his own heart began racing in anticipation of her report. After all, Rex might be the finest officer Kamino had ever produced – although other Jedi generals might disagree with that assessment in favor of their own officers – but he a subordinate nonetheless, and military protocol was very clear on the proper relationships between rank. Not to mention, the Jedi Code's prohibition against attachment. However, Anakin had thus far done an abysmal job of upholding that part of the code; and truth be told, his relationships with his troops often crossed the line, and he tended to give the matter little more than passing consideration.

Rex was too good a man to view simply through the narrow lens of chain-of-command. Anakin considered him a friend – a friend in the best sense of the word, the masculine sense. No gossipy, schmaltzy banter. No coddling or weak-kneed mewling. No, Sir. Rex was not the sort of talkative, busy man that wore on Anakin's nerves. Rex only spoke when doing so served a purpose. He had made war and its waging his primary focus, and he left little room for foolishness or trifling.

Cocky, often arrogant, and always ready to take a risk. These were only enhancements in Anakin's eyes, adding to Rex's qualifications as the best the GAR had to offer.

Jedi Code be damned; Anakin was not going to abandon his attachment to Rex any more than he was going to abandon his attachment to Obiwan or Ahsoka.

Or the woman he loved.

And if that made his fellow Jedi judge him harshly, so be it.

He raised his comm. "Go ahead, Ahsoka."

 _ **So, a little cryptic stuff about the bird and all. All will be made clear next chapter. And some light shed on Ahsoka's feelings regarding Rex, as well as some exposition on Anakin's feelings for his captain, too. Next chapter is one of my favorites (for a number of reasons!)**_


	35. Chapter 35

_**Dear Reader, this chapter has a lot going on, and I admit it's one of my favorites. You will see scads of references to Watership Down! A few shout-outs to other episodes ("All we have are a couple of walkers and the Twilight. Awaiting orders, Sir!"), Anakin's suspicions, and "the bird." I hope you enjoy. Peace, CS**_

Chapter 35 Seeing Through the Wind

" _Shadows in the darkness, just passing through.  
Now that I've found you, I realize what I've got to do."_

 _The Western Sky_  
Justin Hayward

* * *

"You should head back to the healing rooms, Jesse."

This suggestion from Pitch came as the two squad mates joined in the task of clearing the rubble of the assembly hall. Now that the combat situation was over and it was just the two of them in close proximity, Pitch could revert to calling his brother by his name and not his rank. It was a fine line that he, Kix and Hardcase walked – when to call their ranking squad mates by their names versus their ranks. And while there was no set of unspoken rules, Pitch, for his part, always tried to use rank when in front of other non-squad mate brothers. Sometimes the urgency or surprise of the moment made him forget himself, but that was a slip he was willing to live with.

"Eh, it's not so bad," Jesse replied. "Besides, there's a lot of work to do here."

"And a lot of other people who can handle it," Pitch pointed out. "Don't forget: you were out cold for a few minutes. And you're pretty banged up. You probably have a concussion—"

"Once the engineers arrive, I'll head back to get looked at," Jesse cut him off. But he if thought he was preempting any further discussion, he should have known better.

"Don't be so stubborn," Pitch chastised. "The fighting's over. Last thing we need is for you to keel over from a head injury. We can handle it."

"You're damned right, they can handle it. And you'd better do as he says, or you'll have me to answer to."

Both men recognized the voice immediately, and turning, they felt as if deliverance had arrived – in a manner of speaking.

The trooper standing before them was clad in armor emblazoned with 501st blue – and now with a plain grey one-sided pauldron and grey kama. His helmet, almost as battered as the rest of his armor, sported the tell-tale sign of a highly stylized running Beshan rabbit just above the visor.

"Well, look who decided to drop in on his way back from charm school!" Pitch said with a great smile.

Jesse added in pointed humor, "I guess they'll let just about anybody graduate from ARC training these days."

"Just about," came the reply, and the trooper came to meet them.

They knew him well enough to brace for the greeting; and as he took them both, one arm around each man's neck, and tightened his hold into one-armed headlocks, the two of them went along willingly. This was tradition, and it had been eight or nine weeks at least since they'd last seen him.

Bent double, they stumbled along as he walked at a leisurely pace. "Have you missed me? I know you have. I see now what happens when I'm not around. You revert right back to Shinie mode and get into all kinds of trouble, don't you? Oh, but it's good to see you again. I missed you. You missed me, right? It's been a long time. By the Force, it feels like it's been a million years. I can't believe it was only six weeks. Was it six weeks? Fek and all, it had to have been longer than that."

He released them, and they both straightened up, grinning broadly.

"Good to have you back, Top," Jesse said sincerely. "And yes, we have missed you. A lot."

"And uh, this look . . . it suits you," Pitch added. "Congratulations, _ARC trooper_."

"Thanks, brother," Top replied. "It wasn't so hard."

"Really?"

"Of course, it was hard!" the newly minted ARC trooper roared. "But that's the way I like it. Anything too easy isn't worth going after, heh? I like a challenge."

"Yeah, well, you're crazy like that," Pitch prodded.

"Enh-huh." Top had a funny way with one- or two-syllable sounds of agreement or disagreement. "But not so crazy as to think I should be busting my ass after I've just about had my head blown off." He looked pointedly at Jesse. "That means you, brother. Krebs, half your face is covered in blood, and if you were unconscious, you need to be looked at."

Jesse shook his head and simpered. "Okay, Mister Bigwig, don't think that just because you're now an ARC trooper, you're going to give me orders. We're both still lieutenants, but _I'm_ second-in-command."

"You're right," Top conceded. "Can I help it if I don't want to see my second-in-command . . . how did you put it, Pitch? – _keel over_ because he was too hardheaded to go see a medic when he should have?"

"Oh, for the love of—"

"Well, I'll . . . be . . . damned!"

This was Hardcase's voice, and it drew the three squad-mates' attention.

"Don't you look pretty in your fancy little skirt and shoulder pads?"

Top greeted Hardcase the same way he had Jesse and Pitch. Such masculine bravado traced straight back to their days on Kamino when Top had soundly defeated each of them repeatedly in every hand-to-hand combat training matchup. He liked to remind them of his superiority in that one area at least, and none of his squad-mates had any complaint. It was a fun reminder of good times.

"You would never say that to the captain," Top pointed out as he half-dragged Hardcase to where Jesse and Pitch stood watching with humor.

"The captain looks good in his—" Hardcase began, choking off as Top tightened his hold.

"I look good in mine!"

"You look dainty."

"I'll show you how dainty I am," Top threatened, but he released his brother, and even behind the darkened visor of his helmet, the others could tell he was smiling.

"Where's LB?"

"Augh . . . you know he _hates_ when you call him that," Pitch said.

"Nah, he don't," Top replied, purposefully tweaking his vernacular – something he often did, whether for effect or out of habit or just to have fun with his words – no one really knew. It was simply a part of who he was, and his squad-mates accepted it. "So, where is he? We need to have a proper reunion with all five of us."

Jesse looked at his brothers. They clearly were deferring to him to answer the question.

"He's in the healing rooms," Jesse began, adding quickly. "He's alright, but . . . he was injured when we crashed, and he's still recovering."

The whole mood of the moment changed. "How bad?" Top asked.

Jesse took a deep breath. After Kix, Top was the most emotional of the five of them. Sometimes, Jesse thought he might even beat Kix out for that title.

"It was very serious," he explained evenly. "We thought, for a time, that he wasn't going to make it. But the people here are healers, and their skills are far beyond anything I've ever seen before. It took a while, but he's definitely out of danger. We were even going to try and get him outside today . . . until this happened."

"Take me to him."

And there would be no argument. They would all go together. That was how it was with Saber Squad.

* * *

Anakin was not one to hoard news – good or bad. If he knew something and felt it needed to be shared, he did so right away. While this had always been his propensity, wartime had honed that trait within him, for he never knew if he would be alive long enough to pass along information - or utter a word of greeting or an expression of comfort.

He had developed the ability to worry little about what was to come, realizing that he needed to survive the here and now if he hoped to be present for the future. Mistakes on the battlefield often did not afford a second chance. He tended to take that philosophy into every corner of his life these days. Do what needed to be done, and don't hesitate.

But as he watched Doma Maree interacting with her people, helping move debris, directing the doctors and nurses now arriving at the scene, he held back. To be sure, he had news; and he had no doubt that she would want to know. Still, he wavered.

It was not that the Doma intimidated him, although she did, to some small degree.

It was rather that his curiosity would be better satisfied if he waited just a short bit. Ahsoka would be back soon, and then would follow any hints of significance.

But that might be considered unkind or cruel.

" _Go tell her,"_ Anakin ordered himself. _"She's worried. She needs to know."_

"Ah, here comes the 40th." This was from Obiwan, speaking of the arrival of the 40th Combat Engineering Brigade, two battalions of which had been assigned to assist. The 40th was part of the Resolute's Battle Group, and although they had their own ships within the battle group, they also had two battalions permanently quartered aboard the flagship. "I'll meet with Colonel Hexxat and brief him on the situation."

Anakin only nodded.

"Is something on your mind?" Obiwan inquired. "You seem preoccupied."

"I'm wondering . . . " Anakin began slowly, " . . . what kind of woman Doma Maree is."

"What kind of woman?" Obiwan said.

"You had to feel what I felt when we first met her, Master," Anakin put forth. "She has some kind of energy, but it didn't feel like the Force."

"I did feel it. But I didn't get the impression it was anything to be concerned about. Clearly, she and her Order are dedicated to peace." A pause. "And Bertegad is aligned with the Republic." Seeing that his protégé was still bothered, he went on. "We have an ally in these people. I perceive no danger in them."

"Judging from what Jesse told us, apparently there is a danger," Anakin countered. "At least one of these religious people didn't want the clones around . . . and wanted them gone badly enough to turn them over to the Separatists." He narrowed his eyes as he continued to watch the Doma. "But that's not what I'm talking about."

"Then what?"

Anakin balked. This was not a topic to bring up under the current circumstances. In fact, it was not a topic to be brought up at all. If the Doma had some sort of feelings for Rex, it hardly mattered; for the Resolute would be leaving probably sooner than later. Rex would go with them, and there was no chance—none—that he would allow himself to be distracted from his primary goal of waging war by the memories of time spent with this woman. Rex was too much of a professional.

But again, that was not what was truly nagging at Anakin, hovering all about the verge of his conscience. No, it was something else. It was the idea of a holy woman—a woman who must certainly have a code by which she lived—finding something to love in a soldier.

It was almost akin to a Jedi finding something to love in . . . a senator.

" _Woah, woah, you're getting ahead of yourself,"_ Anakin chided. _"You don't know if there's anything going on there or not. You don't know what you felt. Just . . . take a step back. Besides, you've got other more important things to think about. This place is a disaster."_

"I'm just . . . hoping this devastation is something she can deal with," he said, deciding ultimately that a lie was better than a truth filled with unsubstantiated suspicions.

"Generals, ship approaching from the northeast," Cody announced.

Anakin had heard the gunship's engines before Cody had spoken, and he already knew what was coming off that ship. He turned towards its slow approach over the treetops.

It was coming in headlong, but when it fishtailed to the side almost directly overhead, revealing the open side door, Anakin's sense of relief found its final closure.

Standing in the doorway, peering down with his usual gravity, looking no worse for what he'd just been through, Rex looked like a statue – notwithstanding his local attire – a monument to the great clone army. He met his general's eyes, and the two exchanged a curt nod as the ship lowered slowly, proceeding cautiously amidst the many people coming and going in the area.

Anakin saw Rex's gaze then sweep out past him.

Anakin casually turned his attention towards the Doma, and he knew at that moment.

Maree had stopped what she was doing and seemed to be struggling between laughing and crying, though her composure never cracked. She swallowed down any sentiment that might have been blatant to the untrained eye; but for someone like Anakin Skywalker, there was no disguising what was going on in the woman's head.

Rex did not take his eyes from hers until the gunship touched down, and then he showed himself to be his usual steady self. He stepped down and went immediately to his commanding general.

"Good to see you, Sir," he said with a salute, standing ramrod straight and with the formal bearing for which he was so well known.

"You, too, Rex," Anakin replied. "And in one piece."

Rex responded with an arch, expectant expression, which assured General Skywalker that his captain was perfectly fine. It also prompted an apology.

"Uh, sorry about that little case of mistaken identity," Anakin said a bit self-consciously.

"You had no way of knowing, Sir," Rex replied. "And no harm done. We all came through it okay."

Anakin looked to Ahsoka, who was beaming in a way her master had not seen in a long time.

"Good job, Snips."

"All in a day's work, Master," she replied casually. She would not give too much away where her feelings were concerned. "I'm glad they all made it."

Anakin returned his attention to Rex. "That was a crazy plan you came up with," he said, almost admiringly. "You may have actually pulled it off if we hadn't shot you down."

Tip and Bounce had exited the ship behind Rex, and now Bounce could not help speaking up in passing. "We were flying by the seat of our pants, General."

Anakin smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Sometimes that's the best way to fly."

As the two pilots headed off to join the rescue efforts, Anakin noticed that the Doma was heading in his direction. She moved with the calm, measured movements of someone who was in complete control, yet Anakin was not fooled. There was much roiling beneath the placid exterior.

"Captain Rex, I'm glad to see you're back safely," she announced, her voice containing genuine happiness but giving no hint at anything beyond what finely honed manners and extraordinary containment would warrant under such circumstances.

"Me, too," Rex replied.

"I didn't know you'd gone up in the ship," Maree stated.

"It was a chance we had to take."

Anakin watched this exchange with a growing certitude. The voices, the mannerisms, the artificial coolness and distance. He knew it all so well. He knew the look on Maree's face. He had seen similar expressions many times before. Rex was somewhat more difficult to decipher, but it was still clear to Anakin that something had happened between these two, though precisely what and to what degree remained to be seen. For now, they were both comporting themselves with the professionalism and decorum required by the gravity and urgency of the situation.

"Again, I'm—I'm relieved you're safe," Maree said, appearing as if she wanted to say more, but then adding, "I have to get back to work."

Rex nodded. He watched in silence for several seconds as the Doma returned to helping clear the rubble, noting on the edge of his awareness that the engineers—more of his brothers—were beginning to arrive. Soon, things would begin moving quickly. He returned his attention to General Skywalker.

"Orders, Sir?"

Knowing that his captain would balk at any suggestion to take it easy for a few minutes, Anakin gave as nebulous an order as he could conjure. "Take charge of your battalion, Captain."

"I have no functioning communications, General," Rex pointed out.

Anakin crossed his arms with an unspoken message that Rex took to heart immediately.

"I'll find a way, Sir," he said with a crisp snap to attention. With General Skywalker, there were no excuses, no begging off. Rex would go procure his own comm-link from someone, somehow.

Anakin went on, "You've got four squads out securing the area. Jesse did a headcount and everyone was accounted for."

"Where is Jesse?" Rex asked.

"He and his crew were going to check on Kix," Anakin replied, adding with quirky expression, "Although I don't know why it took all four of them to do it."

"All four?" Rex knew the intimation of that number. "Top is back?"

Here, Ahsoka spoke up. "I'll say. You might be fighting for your job, Rex."

Rex regarded her with doubt but said nothing.

"It's almost eighteen hundred hours," Anakin said, looking at his chronometer. "Meet back here at twenty hundred for a status update. In the meantime, it's your battalion, Rex. Put them to use as you see fit."

It was imprecise, but Anakin felt it was exactly the kind of order that befitted the circumstances. After three weeks of absence, Rex needed to be jolted back into command of the 800 men who comprised the 501st. Only a small jolt, for Rex never veered far from his primary mission of leading men and waging war. But if Anakin were right and the sweet life had diverted his attention during his three-week hiatus, he might have strayed a bit further than expected. In fact, Rex had never been away from the front lines of battle for more than 10 standard days – the amount of time it had taken to inspect outlying listening posts. The general's order would not only keep him occupied but it would start turning once more the wheels of his innate need for action.

For Anakin was well-acquainted with how it felt to lose one's focus, to slide easily and willingly into the depths of a woman's affection, ready to forsake everything that had once been held as important. And he had already conceded that the only thing that had stopped him from falling completely was his lover's fortitude.

Padme Amadala – Senator Padme Amadala – had been his bulwark.

His protection against his own weakness.

Looking at Rex, his steady and reliable captain, he wondered . . .

" _But does he have any weakness? Any?"_

The next few days would tell.

* * *

The room was empty.

"They must have evacuated everyone when the fighting started," Jesse supposed, then popping back out into the hallway, he saw a sister at the far end and called out to her.

She came to meet him.

"Where is everyone?"

"They were moved down into the caverns," she replied. "We haven't received the all-clear to bring them back up yet."

"Can you take us there?"

She nodded, then asked, "You are looking for Kix?"

"Yes."

They followed her down into the labyrinth of underground passages.

She approached a brother who was standing at the opening into a large cave, and after a brief inquiry, she led them through the cave, which was filled with people on gurneys and in wheelchairs, all the accessories of their medical requirements surrounding them. The adjacent cave into which she passed was more organized with partitioned areas and permanent equipment. This area was meant to house the more seriously ill and injured during just such times of turmoil.

In the seventh or eighth partitioned "room", she swept out her hand and stepped back.

Jesse walked in first to see Kix sitting up in the bed, looking worried and forlorn. But when Kix raised his eyes and his gaze fell upon his brother, his reaction was one of both relief and concern: relief that he was still alive, and concern over the blood now gelling and crusting on the side of Jesse's face.

"Jesse . . . are you alright? What's going on up there?" Kix asked.

"The fighting's over," Jesse replied. "General Skywalker's here. And, uh, we brought you a little surprise." As he spoke, Top, Pitch and Hardcase came around the partition.

"I—I don't believe it," Kix said, barely able to get the words out.

Top came forward, removing his helmet.

The face beneath was the same one they all shared, yet there was a softness in the eyes and around the mouth – unexpected, considering the blustery, overbearing personality behind those eyes and the boastful, continuous chatter that usually poured from that mouth.

But there were was no bluster and no chatter right now. Only the earnest affection of brotherhood as he put his gloved hand on Kix's shoulder and leaned over until their foreheads touched.

"Little Brother," he murmured.

"I hate it when you call me that," Kix replied lightly.

"Neh, you don't."

Top straightened up and took a moment collect himself. For whatever traits he possessed that got on his brothers' nerves, it could never be said that he was not fiercely devoted to them, to the point where he did not care if his emotions showed.

He might be the most daring, aggressive, and fearless among them; but he was also generous, passionate, and superstitious. Over-protective at the same time as expecting everyone to carry their own weight, he made no demands that he himself would not keep. He accepted Jesse's superiority in position without grudge or envy, for he knew Jesse was the more level-headed, the more thoughtful. He understood Jesse's reasons for declining ARC training – Top had entertained the same reservations himself; but he had confidence that the day would come.

From a physical aspect, Top stood out even in a squad of standouts. He had gotten his name owing to the haircut he had chosen back on Kamino – back in the days before it was even acceptable or fashionable to sport any appearance other than the standard. He wore a high and tight that rose into a perfectly coiffed flat top – and after coming to the 501st, he'd dyed it the requisite blue.

He bore a tattoo very similar to Hardcase's; and in fact, it was the second half of the title they both coveted and a mark of the deep friendship they had formed beyond their brotherhood.

Hardcase sported the word "Big" in the old Yelvin code. Top wore the word "Wig", also Yelvin Code.

Bigwig.

It had been a running rivalry between them since the first moments they'd been old enough to be aware of each other, and now it was a source of camaraderie and a symbol of their bond. From the outset, they had been striving to outdo one another: in physical contests, combat skills, piloting and navigation, survival training, each claiming that he was the "bigwig" of the batch. And through their competition, they had ironically developed a friendship that went a long way towards defining who they both were – so much so, that only Hardcase knew the appropriate thing to say at that moment.

"Krebs, you're not gonna start _crying_ , are you?"

"Shut up," Top replied without missing a beat, then to Kix. "Are you going to be okay, LB?"

"Not if you keep calling me that."

Top conceded. " _Kix_ , are you going to be alright?"

"Yes," came the reply. "I'm going to be fine."

Top turned and in what could have been the dramatic performance of a lifetime, held out his arms plaintively and with feigned upset, claimed, "I see now that I can't leave you guys alone for even a few weeks. This is what happens when I'm not around."

Pitch leaned against Hardcase's shoulder. "Here we go."

Jesse, knowing his fellow lieutenant's tendency towards histrionics, replied sincerely, "Believe me, we wished you were here. We all wished you were here."

"But that wouldn't have changed anything in the crash," Kix stated. He smiled at some internal image. "All it would have meant was that they'd have to spend as much time comforting you as looking after me."

"Maybe so, maybe so," Top granted. "I'm just glad we're all together again."

And he knew he was speaking for all of them.

* * *

The sun was low in the sky when the first survivors were brought out from the ruins of the assembly hall.

Anakin had been watching the rescue efforts. He was always amazed when he watched the engineers at work. As combat engineers, their usual line of work involved constructing bridges and orbital rings, repairing airfields and spaceports, building structures to serve as headquarters or barracks. They were not usually in the business of search and rescue; but from what Anakin was witnessing, they should have been. They were quick, cautious, and precise.

And the rewards of their meticulous labor was now being uncovered.

There was a moment when Anakin looked on in curious wonder as Echo charged past everyone else on the hand-out team and took a little girl in his arms. The child clutched around his neck, but she was not crying. Nor was she bemused, as many of the others were. She was happy – and if Anakin were any judge, she was happy not merely to be alive: she was happy to see Echo.

Anakin began to wonder. The subtle reunion between Rex and the Doma. This joyful reunion between Echo and a little girl. What else had transpired in the three weeks since they had crash-landed on this planet? What other surprises awaited?

Obiwan joined him. "I just got word from the Jedi Council. The Senate approved emergency measures to help with recovery and restoration. They will be sending out teams within 48 hours." A pause. "We've been ordered to stay until they arrive."

"That means another week, at least," Anakin noted.

"But with good reason," Obiwan said. "Once the Separatists realize they've lost a ship, they might send someone out to look for it. There could still be trouble."

"Master."

Both Jedi turned as Ahsoka came striding towards them.

"What is it, Snips?" Anakin asked.

"Don't you think it might be a good idea to send our troops from the crash back up to the Resolute now? They should all get medical scans, and I'm sure they're tired after all they've been through. They need some rest," she suggested.

"In a while, Ahsoka," Anakin replied. "I don't think you could get any of them to go right now." A pause. "How were things going at the temple?"

"Slowly," she said. "The stones used to build that thing are much more massive than what was used here. Some of them are as big as a gunship, and they were knocked down when the roof was blasted in."

"You stay here," Anakin ordered her. "I'm going to go check out things at the temple." Even as he spoke, he noticed the Doma extricate herself from the area where the brothers and sisters had set up an emergency medical site. She weaved her way through the piles of excavated rubble and headed off on a path that led into the woods in the direction of the Taber.

Not a minute later, he saw Rex break from where he had been standing by with Colonel Hexxat, helping direct the engineers work. He took the same pathway into the woods.

* * *

Maree stopped for a moment to splash water on her face at a stone trough along the path. She was filthy, dripping with sweat, a bit bruised and scraped, and more exhausted than she had ever been. When she took a moment to wipe the water from her face,, she noticed her hands were shaking – not with fear or anxiety, although both were present – but from fatigue.

The adrenaline that had carried her through the attack was ebbing, and now she was operating on sheer determination. She had seen the work the Republic forces were doing at the assembly hall, and she felt confident that she could leave the scene in their more-than-capable hands to go take stock of what was happening at the Taber.

She was almost fearful of seeing the full extent of the damage and even more afraid of discovering what her moment of indiscretion on the battlefield might have led to.

She straightened up and prepared to continue on her way.

"Maree."

She felt her pulse quicken at the sound of the voice – the only voice she wanted to hear at that moment, the only voice that could dispel the weariness. Turning, she saw Rex walking towards her at a brisk clip.

The captain did not hesitate, did not falter, but crossed the remaining distance and put his arms around her. He did not need to ask permission. He did not need to question whether this was the appropriate gesture. It was how he felt and what he needed to do.

 _He_ needed it.

He felt her arms encircle him, her hands clutching the back of his tunic. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, and for a very long time, neither of them spoke or moved.

Under different circumstances, Rex might have marveled at the way it felt to be in such intimate contact. He might have cast aside the prohibitions both he and the Doma were bound to uphold. He might have taken the next step, knowing full well that there was no future for them together.

But instead he just . . . held on. It was all he could do.

Their meeting earlier, in the presence of the generals, had been, of necessity, reserved and formal. But it had not been easy.

For Rex, there was simply no denying it: whatever he was feeling for her was only growing stronger, and in the wake of disaster, he was torn between longing and guilt. Longing for something he knew could never be, and guilt over the results of his actions.

At length, Maree spoke softly. "I was afraid you'd been killed." Her voice was trembling. "I don't know what I would have done."

Rex held her tighter. "You shouldn't feel that way about me."

"It's too late," she countered. "I already do." She was silent for a moment. "I won't break my vows, but I won't pretend not to feel the way I do."

Rex swallowed. "That's not what I mean. I mean that . . . you shouldn't feel that way about me after everything that just happened. This is all my fault."

The grief in his voice was such that it made Maree draw back a bit and look up at him without comprehension. She was stunned at the pain on his face. "How is this your fault?"

"Because I—I should have taken my men and left after the Separatists came the first time," he replied. "I knew they wouldn't give up that easily, that there was a good chance they'd come back. I should have left . . . but I . . . I put my own . . . I made a bad decision."

Maree had not been expecting this – certainly not from Rex, whose self-assured manner had seemed to be one of his defining characteristics.

"Rex . . . if you are to blame, then I must share in your guilt – and with a greater part," she offered. "I'm the one who begged you stay. You wanted to leave. I remember we argued over it, and I convinced you to stay. If you are guilty, then so am I."

But Rex shook his head. "It was my decision, and it was a bad one. If we'd left, the Separatists never would have come back here. Au-Gehen never would have felt threatened, and he never would have turned us in."

Maree listened to him, then she reached up and took his face gently in her hands.

"You are not to blame," she insisted. "I am not to blame. Rex . . . this is the sort of tragedy that happens in a galaxy at war. Decisions made for the right reasons could result in defeat. Decisions made for the wrong reasons could result in victory. Not every outcome is in our hands. You understand that, don't you?"

He did not reply, didn't know how to reply. Instead, he pulled her close again, as if the only comfort to be found was in her embrace.

"I would not change any of my decisions," Maree whispered into his ear. "I would choose you and your brothers again . . . without hesitation."

"How can you be so . . . accepting of what's happened?" Rex asked, but not in an accusatory manner. He simply could not comprehend how she could present such a detached assessment when he knew that she was a woman of feeling. "Many of your people died because of this—"

"Because a ship filled with Republic troops crashed in the desert, and we took them in. Rex, that is _what we do._ And when I say I would do it again, I would do it again. We all would."

Rex absorbed her words, but he found little comfort in them. At last, he asked, "Can we stand here a while? I just want to stand here."

It was a brave request from a strong man, a man who never let his weakness show in front of his brothers or his commanders.

And Maree knew it what it had taken for him to come to her like this.

She raised her head and kissed his cheek.

"For as long as you want," she replied.

* * *

A few more seconds, and Anakin would feel like a voyeur.

He'd not meant to spy on his captain. In fact, he'd come upon the scene quite unexpectedly. Well, that wasn't completely true. After all, he had seen Rex go off down the same path the Doma had taken, and his curiosity had perhaps gotten the better of him.

His ostensible purpose in setting off behind them had been to go see how things were progressing at the Taber. But he would be lying to himself if he did not admit that part of his decision-making process had been driven by the desire to know if Rex had roamed perhaps a bit too far afield.

Whereas moments earlier, he'd tried to convince himself it was none of his concern; now he found himself doing the opposite. Why, it was a legitimate concern! At least, he told himself it was. In the hours since the battle had ended, Anakin had had plenty of time to talk to the brothers and some of the sisters and learn about their beliefs and their lives. And the one thing that had struck him – because it so resembled his own situation – was the vow of celibacy under which the orders lived. It reminded him of the Jedi Order's prohibitions against attachment, and his own disregard of that proscription.

To Anakin's mind, if Rex were contemplating some sort of liaison with the Doma, it would be doubly exclusive, for he was not free to pursue her, and she was bound by her own vows not to pursue him.

And on a purely selfish level, Anakin _needed_ his captain. He needed Rex to be fully engaged, fully focused. He needed his perseverance and never-say-die attitude. But most of all, he needed the one and only man—clone or otherwise—on whom he could count for sound advice. He could bounce his most insane ideas off Rex, and while Rex would almost always be in agreement, he had the knack for tweaking a scheme just enough to make it doable. Rex was one of his foremost confidants, for there was never any question that Rex would pass on even the smallest tidbit of information. Rex was tight-lipped, despised gossip and scuttlebutt, and offered the sort of good, solid, manly advice that Anakin found in short supply among most of his acquaintances. He wasn't judgmental, like Obiwan. He wasn't on opposite sides of the political spectrum, like Padme. He wasn't still learning how to behave as an adult, like Ahsoka.

Yes, Anakin considered himself very fortunate to have gained Rex as his first-in-command.

He didn't want to lose him now.

At least, that was how he justified his decision on the path. He'd seen Rex and the Doma from a distance, embracing in a way reserved only for lovers; but as he watched from the cover of a clump of Sandstraw, he saw that this was a completely different kind of love from what he'd feared might be seeping into his captain's heart.

There might be an erotic component to it; but if so, it was not on display at the moment. No, it appeared to Anakin that the one thing being exchanged in the greatest degree was comfort. And it was not just that Rex was comforting and consoling the Doma; no, in fact, it seemed as if Rex were deriving the greater amount of solace.

Anakin could see and even sense—to some extent—the slackening of tension, the easing of grief; and he felt, for a moment, disappointed in himself that he had not recognized these things in Rex earlier. He felt grateful to the Doma for the consolation she was providing, but more so for the temperance she showed.

He stole back behind the Sandstraw and waited until they both moved off.

Then he continued on his way to the Taber.

* * *

"I don't—I don't—" Ajax sprung over the mounds of fallen stone and shattered glass. He didn't care when he fell once, then twice, even three times. He didn't care if he was acting unsoldierly. And he didn't care that hugging was not a "clone-like" manner of affection.

His brother was alive, and he was going to hug him.

Double Barrel was sitting on a small pile of debris, looking bemused and being tended by two sisters and a brother. He was certainly injured, but clearly not in any danger of dying.

"How the hell—how did you survive that?" Ajax asked. "We thought you were dead."

"I don't know how to explain it," DB replied. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"You're alive . . . I'll believe anything," Ajax said.

"He did it," DB replied, jerking his head up and back to his right.

Ajax saw nothing in the deepening shadows behind him. "Who?"

"Up there on the wall."

Ajax looked again, and this time he sucked in a breath of astonishment. "Holy . . . "

A massive bird—an eagle—the size of a man was perched in a shallow recess in the wall where once a statue had stood but that now lay broken on the floor. The animal was translucent with a sort of dull light defining its shape.

"Yeah, that's what I said," DB replied. "At first, I thought I was imagining things, but everyone else sees him, too."

"What happened?"

DB winced as the sister applied a bandage over a bloody on his cheek. "I was about to take my shot when the whole place came down. We got hit with something. I don't know what, but the next thing I knew, I was going down and everything was going down with me." He shook his head. "You know we're trained to hang onto our weapon no matter what. Well, that's what I did. I was getting beaten to a pulp from all sides, but I hung on to that baby." He nodded towards his sniper rifle, propped up against the wall, safely out of the way. "I figured, I'm gonna die, but I'll be damned if I'll lose my weapon. Huh, how's that for logic? Anyway, suddenly I felt something grab me, and I wasn't falling anymore. I was going _up_. I tried to see what it was, but all I could make out was a lot of crazy movement, like wings flapping. Turns out I wasn't so crazy." He once again motioned towards the bird. "It was him. He took me back up to the top of another one of the towers and just stood there. I'll tell you, I was terrified out of my wits. But then Brother Au-Celso—he'd been with me on the parapet—he was still alive and trapped on the remains of the fall wall. He kept shouting at me to take my shot. So I did. I—I wasn't seeing too clearly, but I still took it." A pause as he looked at Ajax straight on for the first time. "Did I hit the target?"

"You sure did, buddy," Ajax affirmed.

"Eh, that's good." DB looked very tired. "I must have passed out after that, because when I woke up, I was down here being looked over by the sisters, and that bird was sitting up there."

"That bird . . ."

They all looked up at the sound of Doma Maree's voice.

" . . . is one of the souls I have been guarding."

 _ **Just a few notes. Beshan rabbit - the image I have in my head comes straight from the Uffington Horse hill image. Bigwig - Watership down all over the place, huh? And I do love Top very much, so I was glad to introduce him at long last. I also am fond of the scene between Rex and Maree at the trough (listened to lots of James Horner as background for that bit). As for the eagle - okay, full disclosure that this was inspired by my complete and utter infatuation with the DC Eagle Cam and the two eaglets that just fledged (Freedom and Liberty). These birds (American Bald Eagles) are so majestic, so devoted to their babies, it just moved me to tears to watch how beautiful they are. So, I had to find a way to incorporate them - and now they're here to stay!**_


	36. Chapter 36

_**Dear Reader, there's no action in this chapter. This is all explanation, exposition, and philosophy. If it's boring, sorry about that, but there's a lot to wrap up before the boys leave Bertegad! I have a little "bow" to something from LLTC's Whatever Happened to Captain Rex saga. There is a chapter (and a line) titled, "Smells Too Good to be Cody", which I thought was funny and brilliant, so I pay homage to LLTC's wit with a short little snippet in this chapter. And lastly, yes, John Denver! If you think he's too hokey for Star Wars, then phew! I love his music, his lyrics, and I think he was a talent too soon taken from us. He opens this chapter with one of my favorite songs of his. Peace, CS**_

Chapter 36 The Eagle and the Afterward

" _I am the eagle. I live in high country, in rocky cathedrals that reach to the sky.  
I am the hawk, and there's blood on my feathers, but time is still turning, they soon will be dry.  
All those who see me and all who believe in me carry the freedom I feel when I fly.  
Come dance on the westwind and touch all the mountaintops,  
Sail o'er the canyons and up to the stars.  
And reach for the heavens and hope for the future,  
And all that we can be, not what we are."_

The Eagle and the Hawk  
John Denver

* * *

Double Barrel was not sure how to react or what to say to the Doma's announcement, so he fell back on simple honesty. "Huh. I guess that's . . . that's pretty interesting. I have no idea what that means." He glanced uncomfortably back over his shoulder at the bird. "How did he . . . get lose?"

Maree looked a bit ill at ease, herself. "I released him." A pause. "And many others. You were probably caught in the destruction while this was going on and didn't notice the souls. It looks like not all of them went back into Finirest."

She held out her arm towards the eagle, and it soared down, prompting Rex and the others to draw back a bit as it landed beside the Doma. Double Barrel, in particular, shied away, eyeing the creature warily.

"Thing's taller than a SBD," he grumbled, using the acronym for super battle droid. "What planet has an eagle that size?"

Maree could not help but smile at his question. "This one." She stroked the strong neck and formidable yellow beak, and the touch of her hand was met with the same glowing light that had been witnessed during the Finirest and when she had touched her hand to the floor in Rex's presence. "The high mountains far away to the north . . . the Obental. They have eagles this large. That's where he's from. They have them in other places, too. But he is from the Obental."

"You know that?" Ajax asked.

"I know all my souls," Maree replied. "Not in the way people know each other, but . . . in a sort of . . . in the sense that they're part of the body, part of the whole of creation. Me'Ente Loge, he knows them each individually, but that sort of knowledge is reserved for the Creator and his Messengers."

Au-Celso spoke up, and only now did Maree notice that the brother had been standing off to the side the whole time.

"This man should have died when the wall collapsed," he said with gravity, nodding towards Double Barrel. But there was something else in his voice as well—a subtle intimation that the Doma and both of the sisters tending to DB picked up on.

Maree glanced at the two sisters, who gave almost imperceptible nods of affirmation.

Standing beside the Doma, Rex noticed these cues, but he had no idea what was being conveyed.

Celso went on with carefully calculated words. "I saw it with my own eyes. He was being crushed."

Maree looked to the sisters with a question in her eyes.

"It is as Au-Celso says," one of them replied. "The remnants of his injuries remain." She gingerly drew aside the ripped and soiled tunic to reveal bruises that covered almost the entirety of DB's chest and abdomen. Combined with the injuries visible on his face and neck, they brought into short relief just how miraculous his survival was.

Maree hesitated for a moment, then she took a step closer. "Let me just . . . see how you're doing," she said, stretching forth her hand.

The moment her palm came flush with DB's forehead, a white light began to gleam at the point of contact. The eagle's voice rose in a piercing call and the massive wings sent gusts through the air that actually rocked the others on their feet.

"Woah, woah!" DB exclaimed, drawing back with wide eyes. "What's happening? What are you doing?"

The Doma lowered her hand.

Rex could tell she was surprised and perhaps a bit disturbed by what had happened. She maintained an easy, unworried expression; but there was something beneath that exterior that spoke of . . . perhaps another infraction of the rules governing her guardianship? Rex waited to see how she would answer DB's question.

"I was checking to see if what Au-Celso and the sisters suspected is true," she replied. Then, not waiting for the next inquiry, she went on. "And their suspicions are correct. These bruises indicate that you had injuries that should have killed you." A heavy pause, as she prepared to say what came next. "But when the eagle touched you, he imparted some small . . . wisp of his soul. And that healed you."

Double Barrel stared at her like a moonstruck field mouse. He could not find his voice or even formulate the words to ask a coherent question.

Rex, on the other hand, was not so speechless. "What do you mean? How can that bird give away part of his soul?"

"Do you remember when we were in the Taber and I took energy from the souls? I touched your side, and you felt that energy."

Rex nodded. "Yes, I remember."

"I explained to you that the soul is eternal, and as such, its energy is eternal. It can give of itself without end and never be diminished," the Doma explained. "The body is temporal. It will come to an end, but the soul that resides in the body exists both within and without time. The only difference is that soul within time, the soul within the body, is not perfected. It is subject to all the pains and ills, tempted by all the carnal and corporal desires of the physical body. Only after the death of the body does the soul usually find perfection." She gestured towards the ruins of the Taber around her. "These souls are perfected and only waiting for the gates of eternity to open. They are incredibly powerful. And incredibly generous."

"So, you're saying that this creature, this animal, made a conscious decision to save him and even to heal him?" Rex asked incredulously. "Animals don't have that kind of . . . mental capacity."

"So you say," Maree chided. "But you'd be wrong." She added, "These souls may not know they are imparting energy, but they know when they are doing something that is within their nature." A wry grin twinkled in her eye. "Or their super nature, as the case may be. This eagle, by the simple act of touching DB, gave him a part of his own soul."

"Hold on, hold on, hold on," DB interjected. "My brain is going to explode. Good grief, I'm not going to turn into a bird, am I?"

Maree grinned sweetly at him. "No. But it does mean that he's part of you now. He'll always be with you."

"What? Wait! I can't have this bird following me around! He's huge and I can't—it's—it's preposterous!"

"I didn't mean physically," Maree explained. "No, he'll stay here until the next Finirest." A pause. "What I meant was that the elements of his nature will now be part of you, to a greater or lesser degree, for the rest of your life."

"I still have no idea what that means," DB moaned. "I'm pretty happy with my own nature as it is."

"As well you should be," Maree nodded. "But there's nothing wrong with adding to your courage and patience, having a keen sense of timing." She looked at him pointedly. "And valuing freedom." Then, drawing back and taking a somewhat less serious tone, "These are parts of the eagle's nature. And whatever part of your own nature already contained these elements, now those parts are greater."

Seeing that Double Barrel was still bewildered—and likely in desperate need of rest—Maree turned to the two sisters. "Make sure he's well-looked after."

"Yes, Doma."

With that, she turned to Rex and they continued their survey of the damage.

The engineers were already on hand and proceeding with their work.

"What will happen to that bird now?" Rex asked. "You said he'll stay here until the next Finirest, but is he . . . is he in any kind of danger? Or is he himself a danger?"

"Animal souls are unlikely to be corrupted," she replied. "But there is always the possibility. The period between when a soul dies and when it undergoes Finirest is the most dangerous time. The forces of darkness seek out such souls and try to turn them to evil. Any soul that . . . escapes Finirest, such as the eagle, is vulnerable to the same danger."

"And Finirest is only once per your planetary year," Rex half-stated, half-questioned. "Can't you do it more often?"

"I'm not the one who decides such things," Maree replied. "That is Me'Ente Loge's realm." She drew in a deep breath. "It will not be difficult to protect one eagle. What concerns me is that there might be more that did not make it back into Finirest."

Rex regarded her without speaking. He knew there had to be many things she was not telling him, and he was convinced that she was very much avoiding any mention of the full extent and nature of her own power with regard to these souls. When the Monastica had been threatened, she had been on the verge of calling forth the legions of animal spirits; and clearly, she must have intended them to do battle. But as animal souls, did waging war form any part of their makeup? Waging war was not akin to hunting prey or even to the instinct of a single animal defending its territory. If these souls had fought, it would have been at the direction, at the instigation of the Doma. And if they could comprehend the _order_ to fight, might they not also be open to other suggestions, other commands?

It seemed to Rex—if he could bring himself to believe it—that part of being a _perfected_ animal soul was an increase in . . . reason, self-perception? A more deliberate thought process?

None of which he associated with animals – _or their souls_.

It was confusing and, quite frankly, too great a mystery for him to pursue, for it called into question all manner of ethical and moral standards. And while Rex did not shy away from proclaiming what he considered right versus wrong, good versus evil, he confined his judgments to the here and now. The eternal, ephemeral world of which the Doma spoke played no role in the decsions he made or the positions he took.

Still, there was one thing that was weighing on his mind.

"I want to ask you something," he said by way of preamble.

"I will try to answer," Maree replied.

"You think Double Barrel died, don't you? He died, and that eagle restored him to life?" Rex asked.

Maree could not pretend to be surprised. She had already seen that Rex was perceptive and discerning, so it stood reason that he had been able to read even the subtle signs during her examination of Double Barrel. "I can't be sure of that."

"But it's what you suspect."

"Judging from the severity of what remained of his injuries, I think it's very possible," she said.

"These creatures can restore life—"

"They're not creatures, Rex. They're souls," Maree said in an uncharacteristically curt tone. "And they can't bring the dead back to life. Only the Creator can do that. What they can do is use the energy of their own existence to repair a damaged body. But they can't reanimate a pile of bones. They can't . . . reassemble a body blown to pieces. They can heal injuries . . . within reason."

Rex regarded her with probing eyes. "You and your people . . . is this what you use to heal people? Is this where all the skill comes from? From these souls?"

"Absolutely not," Maree told him emphatically. "It is forbidden to take the souls' energy, even when they offer it." A pause. "But we do observe them. We see how the flow of energy works in a perfected soul, and we have worked for millennia—far before my time—to adapt that process to try and harness the power of unperfected souls – _our own_ unperfected souls. Along the way, we have developed many wonderful technologies, but the soul is beyond technology. The greatest power we have ever been able to achieve . . . is prayer. Prayer is the only meaningful way we have found to employ the power of an unperfected soul in the process of healing." She glanced back across the Taber to where DB was now being helped outside, on his way to the healing rooms. "It may seem as if using the souls to heal the injured would be the humane and decent thing to do. But just because something exists and is there for the taking doesn't mean one should take it. The Creator did not fashion bodies to last forever. He created _the soul_ to be eternal, and when a creature is too attached to the body the Creator has provided, it becomes a means of separation. The soul is put into the body for a certain amount of time to accomplish certain things that are necessary in the course of history. But its ultimate purpose, its ultimate place of rest is with the One who created it."

Rex was both amazed and perplexed at her explanation. "I had no idea such beliefs existed."

"Really? I would have thought that, in your journeys, you would have discovered many thousands of belief systems," Maree replied.

"My _journeys_ usually entail going to a place, fighting a battle, and leaving," Rex replied. "There's little time to get to know the history and background of the people, much less their religious beliefs. I always try to be as knowledgeable of a situation as I can, but my focus is usually on terrain, tactics, and weaponry."

"Of course, it is," Maree noted. "By necessity. It's your job, and a lot of lives depend on you."

Rex was silent for a moment. "Sort of in the same way these souls depend on you. You can't stray. You can't make mistakes. You have to be vigilant all the time."

"Yes," she said with a strange, almost nostalgic smile. "And I knew that when I accepted the position of Doma."

"I guess I knew that, too, when I went after the position in the 501st," Rex conceded.

"We're very much alike, Rex," Maree pointed out. "And very different."

Echoing her earlier words, Rex answered, "And I knew that when I decided to take the risk of getting close to you." He swallowed. "But it looks like our time is . . . winding down."

"We knew it would."

"Yes . . . we did."

* * *

"Obi-wan Kenobi. A Jedi has finally stepped foot within these hallowed walls."

"Practo Raphaeli? No, it can't be!"

"It's Fels Au-Raphe now, old friend."

Obi-wan clasped the brother's hand then drew in for a quick slap on the back. "I can hardly believe it," he said. "I often wondered what had become of you after you left the Order, but I would never have guess you'd turn into a holy man! And way out here on such a remote world. How did you end up here?"

"Long story for another time," Au-Raphe replied. "By the Force, it's good to see you."

"I only wish it were under more positive circumstances," Obi-wan said.

"As do I," Au-Raphe agreed. "But these are resilient people. They'll come through this." A pause. "How long will you be here?"

"A week or so, it would seem," came the response. "We're here until the recovery team arrives."

"Wonderful! Then I think we'll have plenty of time to catch up on old times," Au-Raphe grinned.

"I'm looking forward to it," Obi-wan stated with warmth. And it was the truth.

The last thing he had expected to find in the aftermath of the battle was a friend from long ago.

* * *

The next three days passed in a blur.

At least, that was how it felt to Rex.

He hadn't slept a wink – hadn't even tried. He found himself going between the Taber, the assembly hall, and the healing rooms. He'd eaten on site and on the move, barely taking the time to even notice what he was putting in his mouth. He'd not showered, changed clothes, or shaved.

He'd barely had a moment with Maree since that first return to the Taber, though not fully by choice. It was simply that she had her responsibilities and he had his. He had spent only nominal time in General Skywalker's presence. Although he'd procured a wrist communicator, he'd done most of the interactions with his troops face-to-face, and he had tried very hard to stay away from his general, knowing that a command to stand down, take some rest, and possibly return to the Resolute might be on the list of Skywalker's orders.

Rex did not want to do any of those things. If he stopped running like a jack-rabbit from place to place, helping the engineers, the brothers and sisters, leading the men of his battalion, he would have too much time to think. And he knew precisely where those thoughts would lead him.

To the encroaching departure.

That was something he would deal with when the time came.

In the interim, he had recovery operations. Not to mention, two injured lieutenants and his best sniper. Of the three, Sixer's blaster shot to the chest had needed the most work, resulting in an extended stay in the healing rooms. Jesse and Double Barrel had been kept for two days of treatment and observation, then released.

For his own part, Rex was simply moving through the hours without any awareness of time. He had long since passed the phase of operating on adrenaline alone. He was now slogging from one event to the next on nothing more than will power and the incredible reserve of strength innate to each clone. In a part of his mind that he refused to acknowledge, he was hoping to find but not really looking for a logical time and place to stop.

Standing in the botanical garden between the healing rooms and the Taber – neither the time nor the place - he had paused for only a moment, and it occurred to him that he hesitation was in order to try and remember what he was supposed to be doing.

"When was the last time you slept?"

Turning bodily, he saw Cody approaching.

"I don't know," Rex replied, and it was only partly untrue.

As the commander drew near, he took off his helmet and balanced it against his hip. "Well, I know you haven't slept at least since I got back."

"Yeah, how did you get back?" Rex asked, realizing that he'd not spoken to Cody at any length since his return.

"I can tell you that whole story some other time," Cody replied. "Right now, I think you really need to get some sleep, Rex. You're dead on your feet. Come on, the rest of the men have caught some shuteye. A few hours won't kill you."

"I'm fine," Rex protested. "I can manage."

"Manage what? Do you plan to stay awake until we leave?" Cody grinned.

"No, just until the rescue phase is over."

"Rex, they've already finished up that part at the assembly hall," the commander informed him. "They're just doing cleanup now. They'll be done at the Taber in probably the next day, and then it'll be cleanup there, too. The 40th doesn't need our help. They've got plenty of manpower—"

"Where are the men we crash-landed with?" Rex asked. "Have they all returned to the Resolute?"

Cody eyed him with a patience born of wisdom. "No, they're all still here. But they've been getting some rest. I don't think you even know where you are."

"I know exactly where I am, Commander," Rex replied. "I'm just not sure what I was doing."

"Come on," Cody said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Let's go to the Seiba Tops. You can catch an hour or two." He said this, feeling confident that the moment Rex went down, he'd stay down for at least half the day. "Maybe a shower and a change of clothes. You're rank, Captain. Rank as a piece of rankweed," the commander poked.

Cody had never been good at pulling off a joke. He had no timing, no sense of irony. But still he tried. Because where Rex was part of the equation, Cody knew the importance of the attempt. Straightforward bullying had never moved Rex – not even a millimeter. But cajoling, teasing, poking and prodding – these were the things that worked best against the captain.

They were the tools Cody used in order to get what he wanted without having to resort to pulling rank and giving Rex a direct order.

Rex regarded him drolly. "You're one to talk, Commander."

"Eh, you may be right about that," Cody conceded, still he knew he had won the battle. "But I think you can afford to take a break, Rex."

Rex nodded grudgingly. "Yeah, you're right."

They began walking towards the Seiba Tops.

"So, tell me what happened after you left here?" Rex asked, his voice as weary as his gait.

"We made good time," Cody answered. "We passed a lot of caravans heading into the desert to attend some big festival—"

"Me'Ente Loge," Rex filled in.

"Something like that. We had just started across the Swaig Flats when a Perfidio spotted us. It was Admiral Vrehnke. They landed and tried to capture us, but Au-Trava roused one of the Serpico's - it was like a snake the size of a . . . it was as tall as a Grasshopper. It took out their ship, and we ran like hell. I thought they'd been destroyed, but clearly, I was wrong. I understand now they had been here first and then found us."

"A couple days after you left, they showed up."

"It's a good thing they didn't find you then."

Rex's face was like stone. "Yeah, a good thing."

Cody caught the odd tone in his voice, but he continued with his tale. "We made it to Heembab, and Au-Trava took us directly to one of the interstellar relay stations. We sent out a message and got a response back within hours. Two days later, the Resolute arrived and sent ships for us. We warned them that there was probably a Dreadnaught in the area; and when we told them what had happened, they scanned for the Monastica and found the Separatists were already there. They sent down the whole 501st and two squadrons from the 212th. You know the rest from there."

"I'm glad you made it," Rex offered. "I saw Moog. What about Three Point?"

"He's fine," Cody replied. "Already back to flying transport between here and the ship."

"Wow, they didn't give him any downtime," Rex noted.

"He took a day."

They continued walking.

"They all made it, Rex," Cody said somberly. "Every one of the 22 men on that shuttle survived."

Rex felt something strange catch in his throat. "Yeah. We got lucky—more than once."

"Maybe," Cody replied. "Or maybe it was something more than that."

Rex turned a dubious eye. "Like what?"

Cody's answer was not as complex as Rex had been expected, and the concept was simple.

"Maybe it's that we made the right decisions."

Rex grimaced.

Maybe one of them had made the right choices.

The other would spend the rest of his life trying to atone for the wrong choices he had made.


	37. Chapter 37

_**Dear Reader, thanks to my reviewers, Orange Potato, Freedom Phantom, CRB35. A special thanks to LLTC who helped me out with a particularly bothersome problem with this current chapter. I went around in circles about a certain scene, just not feeling that it was in character; and I feel the revised version is much more what the reader would expect to see. Lots of shout-outs in this chapter, as you will see. Enjoy. Peace, CS**_

Chapter 37 Threads

" _Since you cannot do good to all, you are to pay special attention to those who, by the accidents of time, or place, or circumstances, are brought into closer connection with you."_

Saint Augustine

* * *

"Mission accomplished, General Skywalker," Cody announced with only the slightest tinge of self-satisfaction.

"I knew I could count on you, Commander," Anakin grinned.

"I've had plenty of experience," Cody replied. "You know, he really hasn't changed at all since ARC training. I think he's just a little more willing to . . . take a step down in front of me. You're his general. He doesn't want you to think he needs something as unimportant as sleep." The last bit was spoken with a note of humor.

Obi-wan asked the question, though he already knew the answer. "What mission are you talking about?"

"Rex," Anakin replied.

"Ah yes, well, he is a mission unto himself, isn't he?"

"He hadn't slept since we got here," Anakin explained. "I knew if I ordered him to stand down, he'd take that as an insult." A sly grin broadened his features. "So I put the commander on it. I knew he'd find a way."

"I don't think you'll be seeing him for at least twelve hours," Cody surmised. "Probably more. I stayed until he was down for the count. When I left, he was dead to the world."

"Hm, sounds like somebody I know," Obi-wan said innocuously.

Anakin merely returned the remark with a simper.

Obi-wan's wrist comm buzzed, indicating a HOPO transmission was coming in.

Cody dutifully put out his hand and held the device in his open palm.

Admiral Yularen's holographic image appeared. "Generals, we've just received word that the recovery team will be arriving in two standard days. Begin preparations to ensure a smooth transition."

"Yes, Admiral," Obi-wan acknowledged. "How large a transition window are we looking at?"

"One day, two at the most," came the reply. "Since we've already completed most of the rescue operations, the bulk of the recovery team's task will be helping to rebuild. We won't be needed for that. They're bringing a team from the sector engineering corps, so we should be able to move out quickly once they've settled in." A pause. "Fourteen SECAR {14th Sector Army] has issued a warning order for the entire fleet. They've scheduled a holocon for 1600 tomorrow afternoon. All flag officers, their firsts-in command, and intelligence officers are to be present. Something big is in the making."

"We'll be there, Admiral," Obi-wan assured him, then as an afterthought, "Oh, Admiral, has Major Kamat been able to make anything out of the information the clones downloaded from those consoles?"

"He has a team working on it," was all Yularen would allow. "He can fill you in when you see him tomorrow. Yularen out."

"Well, sounds like something's brewing," Anakin remarked.

"Isn't there always?" Obi-wan agreed.

"Did I hear you say you're leaving in a couple days?"

The three Republic officers turned to see Fels Au-Raphe approaching.

"You heard correctly," Obi-wan replied. "Anakin, Cody, this is Practo Raphaeli, Jedi Knight."

"Former Jedi Knight," Au-Raphe corrected.

Anakin and Cody exchanged cordialities with their new acquaintance, Anakin somewhat warily. The only _former_ Jedi Knight he'd ever met had left the Order when he'd turned to the dark side.

Count Dooku.

But if Au-Raphe sensed Anakin's uneasiness, he made no indication and quickly returned to his original subject. "Two days doesn't leave us much time to catch up, Obi-wan."

"Well, I'm getting ready to go survey the work at the Taber," Obi-wan replied. "You're welcome to accompany me. We can talk on the way."

"Actually, I'm here because Au-Mikiel sent me," Au-Raphe stated. "The Doma would like to see you and General Skywalker."

"Of course." Obi-wan turned to Cody. "Make the rounds for me, would you, Commander."

"Yes, General."

With that, Anakin and Obi-wan went with Au-Raphe in the opposite direction from the Taber.

As they walked, Obi-wan tried to figure out if he should bring up the matter of Raphaeli's departure from the Order in front of Anakin. Raphaeli might consider it a private matter and not want to speak of it in front of a stranger.

A bit of introduction might be the perfect lead-in to such a discussion – if one was to take place.

"Anakin used to be my padawan," Obi-wan began.

"You don't say," Au-Raphe replied, sounding genuinely surprised. "I never would have guessed." He looked at Anakin with a grin. "From what I saw during the battle, you didn't look like a man who fights by the book."

"I like to be unpredictable," Anakin replied, then in bold fashion and much to Obi-wan's embarrassment, he asked the very question his master had dallied over. "So, why did you leave the Jedi Order?"

Au-Raphe did not appear put off by the inquiry. "It wasn't for any great or profound reason. I just never felt . . . complete as a Jedi."

"Never felt complete?" The skepticism was plain in Anakin's voice.

"I became a Jedi because I'd always been strong with the Force, ever since I was a little boy," the brother explained. "But my search has always been for spiritual fulfillment, the desire for a connection with something eternal and personal. The Force, as an energy, connects us. But it is incapable of love, compassion. I wanted to find the one who created the Force, the ultimate source of everything that exists." He paused. "And I wanted to love and serve that ultimate source."

"And you think you've found that here?" Obi-wan asked.

"I think I have," Au-Raphe replied. "I've seen things here that I've never seen any Jedi do. Maybe it's all trickery; but if so, then it's a trick I'm willing to fall for."

"What led you here?" Obi-wan asked. "This is a rather remote world."

"I used to spend hours in the Temple library on Coruscant, reading about the galaxy's religions," Au-Raphe replied. "The well-known and the obscure. I already knew about the Verviens and Austeniens when I left the Order. They were . . . on my list of religions to check out." He smiled at how unspiritual that sounded. "I think I went to over fifty places before I came here. But once I arrived, I knew I'd found what I'd been looking for."

"Master Windu was not happy about you leaving," Obi-wan stated.

Au-Raphe seemed to consider his response to this before answering. "Master Windu was unhappy about a great many things. That was one of the reasons I questioned whether or not being a Jedi was the summit of my searching. I wanted joy in addition to sorrow. I wanted laughter in addition to grief. I wanted to be allowed to have fun and not always have to . . . look at the universe through such a narrow lens where everything was seen in only a serious light." He stroked his hand over the braided beard that hung down to his chest. "I wanted to find more in meditation than my own peace-of-mind. I wanted to find communion." His voice was strong. "I believe in the same Creator these people believe in, and he isn't just an energy that wafts around the galaxies. He's a person, and I can know him."

"It does sound fascinating," Obi-wan said, a safe statement that gave no indication of his own opinion on the truth or speciousness of the matter. "And I'm glad you've found a home here. I will always consider you a Jedi, and now an Austenien."

"What did you do with your light saber?" Anakin asked.

"I still have it," Raphe answered. "It was, after all, created from the crystal I chose – or that chose me, if you please. It will always be a special part of me. But I no longer wield it."

"Why not?" This again from Anakin.

Au-Raphe smiled slightly in a self-deprecating manner. "Because the feel of power that comes from holding my light saber in my hands is something that builds upon itself and can be very hard to overcome. I am proud of my past as a Jedi, but _it is_ the past."

"A Jedi learns that his light saber is his life," Anakin pointed out. "Past or present."

"And that is where we differ," Au-Raphe averred. "My life resides in the Creator, not in a weapon."

"If a Jedi loses his light saber, he could end up losing his life," Anakin said.

"He could lose his life anyway," came the response.

"Well, how can—"

"Anakin, I think we can save the theological discussion for some other time," Obi-wan interrupted.

"What other time? We're leaving in a few days," Anakin said.

"Anakin."

"No, it's alright, Obi-wan," Au-Raphe replied. "I enjoy such discussions."

"Yes, but I don't," Obi-wan replied. "Can we change the subject, please?"

"Very well." Au-Raphe moved easily on to a completely different topic. "The clone soldiers—they're very impressive. Not at all what I was expecting. We, of course, hear about the war and the clone army, but we'd never seen them face-to-face until they ended up here. They're all the same, but they're all different."

"Yes," Obi-wan agreed. "As the war's gone on, they've taken more and more to . . . finding ways to distinguish themselves, to show individuality."

"I find it curious—and more than a bit disturbing—that the Jedi Council would have approved of their creation," Au-Raphe noted.

"The council didn't approve of their creation," Obi-wan replied. "They were created in secret at the request of one man. You remember Sifo-Dyas?"

"Of course," Au-Raphe said. "He commissioned the clones? That seems an odd thing to do. Of course, he was always trying to see the future. He must have foreseen the war. What did he have to say about it when his secret was discovered?"

"Nothing," Obi-wan answered. "He was killed before we found out."

"Killed? By whom?"

Obi-wan went through the explanation of events as Anakin gauged Au-Raphe's reaction. But there was nothing untoward to see in his expression or posture. He seemed surprised and dismayed but well-regulated. Indeed, his concern came through after Obi-wan had told the tale, and it was not so much for what Sifo-Dyas had done as it was for the final disposition of the men who comprised the great clone army.

"So, you discovered an army of a million men, with more in the making, bred for the sole purpose of combat, and when you took this information to the Jedi Council, they decided it was best to use them for the purpose for which they were created," the brother summarized. "There is something . . . grotesque in that whole thing."

"I agree it wasn't the . . . optimal thing to do, but what other choice was there? We weren't going to terminate them," Obi-wan sighed. "And war had come. The Republic was in peril of being destroyed. The clones already existed. There were no good options." He shook his head. "We couldn't just . . . set them free. They had no means of livelihood. All they knew how to do was wage war. Where would we resettle a million men – with two million more to come—who had no experience at anything other than how to fight?"

Au-Raphe was placid. "That all sounds like a litany of excuses, a rationalization."

"Maybe it is," Obi-wan said in reply. "But it also happen to be the truth. It's not a good situation. There's no arguing that."

Here, Anakin could no longer hold his peace. "I agree: it never should have happened. The clones never should have been commissioned. But they were, and they're our soldiers now. And I won't speak for Obi-wan, but I can assure you that I couldn't have asked for a better man than Rex as my first-in-command. I don't see him as a clone. I see him as the best officer in the entire army. And when the war is over, he'll be free to do as he pleases."

Au-Raphe regarded him with interest. "Is that the plan? Once the war is over, the clones are free to leave the army? Free to go make a life on their own?"

"That's what _my_ soldiers will be able to do," Anakin said with emphasis.

Obi-wan was more circumspect. "The Senate hasn't decided what will be done with the clones once the war is over, whether they'll be free men or not. I don't think that question is on their minds at the moment. The focus is on gaining victory."

Au-Raphe shook his head. "It amazes me that there seems to be little concern that each one of those millions of bodies has also been endowed with a soul."

"I don't think anyone is . . . denying that," Obi-wan countered. "It's just not something that tends to come up in the course of casual conversation."

Au-Raphe could see that something in his words had rankled his friend's protégé.

"Are you disturbed by what I've said, Master Skywalker?" he asked.

Anakin regarded him for a moment before returning his gaze to the path before them. "Maybe it should come up more often in the conversation," he opined. After a considerable pause, he added, "I know that not every commander views his clone troops the same way I view mine. And maybe we do tend to avoid the subject because it's uncomfortable to us. But I know this: Rex would do anything for me, and I'd do anything for him. Clone or not, he's _my_ captain. The only captain I would want."

Au-Raphe seemed to approve of this answer. "From what I've seen of him, I can understand why you feel that way. But isn't that a bit too much . . . attachment for a Jedi?"

Anakin was defiant. "Maybe it is."

Au-Raphe chuckled. "And _he_ lets you get away with that?"

"I've _tried_ to temper him," Obi-wan said, beating Anakin to the reply. "He's more stubborn than a Trandosian Mudpincer."

"And better-looking, too," Anakin rejoined.

"Oh, good grief . . . "

* * *

"Generals, thank you for coming," Maree greeted the two men in the foyer of her residence. She showed them into a small but well-appointed sitting-room and bade them take a seat. "I wanted to ask this of you in person. I didn't think it would be appropriate to send someone else on my behalf." Her pause left the two Jedi wondering what the matter could be.

When the Doma spoke again, the subject was the furthest thing from their minds.

"Tomorrow, we will be burying our dead. I would like to ask if you care to come to the ceremony."

Anakin was stumped, but Obi-wan's greater experience had him well-prepared to deal with even this sort of unexpected invitation. "We would consider it our honor and privilege, Doma Maree."

"You have been our protectors and now our rescuers," Maree explained. "And the men who have been with us these past few weeks . . . they are as family to us now."

"I know they feel the same way," Obi-wan stated. He then added, "We do have a meeting on the Resolute tomorrow. What time is the funeral ceremony?"

"At sundown."

"Our briefing should be finished by then," Obi-wan stated.

"I'm very glad," Maree nodded. "Au-Raphe can provide you the details."

* * *

Was that the sun? It couldn't be morning already.

Through his closed eyelids, the light showed orange and faint. He moved his head, and the light became much brighter. No, that would never do. He rolled his head the other way, out of the ray's persistent claim of day.

By the Force, but this felt good – the cool of the sheets, the softness at his back, the clean smell of freshness.

He'd showered before hitting the sack, hadn't he? Yes, yes, he must have. He didn't feel gritty and sticky and . . . disgusting anymore. He felt human again.

He heard the _twip-de-tw_ ip of some desert bird outside his window, but that was not enough to tempt him to open his eyes.

This was too wonderful.

He allowed his thoughts to slowly return to yesterday evening – or whenever it was that Cody had nose-led him back here to the Seiba Tops for some rest. Truth be told, he'd given in pretty easily. After all, Cody knew how to prevail over him in any variety of circumstances. He always had.

One would think that the two clone officers had known each other for years. But, in fact, their acquaintance was just barely over a year old. They'd met in ARC school, and in those six weeks of training, a fast friendship had developed. They'd gone from near-loathing to near-inseparable. Rex's irrepressible energy and penchant for mischief had come up against Cody's skills of observation, concentrated focus, and perseverance. Rex might have been a non-comformist, but he was a rigid non-comformist, almost as if it were his duty to be different. Cody had used that rigidity to his advantage at every turn, besting Rex when the latter least expected it, teaching him important lessons he would have never learned otherwise; and, at the same time, fostering an affinity between the two brothers that had withstood the tests—and there had been many—of the last year.

Yesterday had been no different. There had never been any question that Cody would be successful in convincing Rex to get some sleep. Rex had known there was little sense in contesting him. Cody rarely lost in any match of wits or wills between them; yet it was also a given that Cody often found Rex to be right—or at least, intriguing—in those very same matches; and therefore, he perhaps permitted Rex to sway him more than he might allow for someone else.

Whatever the idiosyncrasies of their relationship, Rex, at this moment, was glad Cody had marshaled him off to bed. And that was saying quite a bit, for Rex usually wasn't one to indulge—or even particularly enjoy—lying in bed. In fact, he usually felt as if he should be up doing something. Anything.

The sort of twilight sleep through which he was now passing was what accounted for most of what he considered _regula_ r sleep – never quite all the way under, but sufficient to feel rested. The deep sleep that had preceded it was not something he would soon enjoy again –of that, he felt certain. The threats of war demanded that some part of him always remain vigilant – even in sleep.

At one point, he heard the voices of Echo and Fives, chatting and moving further away beyond his door. As he drifted in and out of the light sleep, moving towards full wakefulness, he thought he heard March singing very off-key. There was still much going on outside his room, and he could not long bear to be isolated from it.

But for the moment, as the sporadic, half-waking world to which he was accustomed returned, he lapsed into snatches of dreams. Very often, the same dreams over and over again.

There he was, on top of that wall. That wall full of gun emplacements. The landing at Point Rain.

General Skywalker was looking at him with a knowing glint in his eye. Commander Tano had an expectant look on her face.

" _Let's go, Rex!"_

" _Up and away!"_

And then he was flying. Falling. Plummeting.

It was one thing for a Jedi to leap off the top of a 20-story wall, but to toss an unprepared clone captain off one . . .

When the event had happened in waking life, Rex had been shocked, then terrified, much to his later chagrin. He should have known he could trust them. They wouldn't have sent him down over the edge had they not known they'd be able to save him. And besides . . . General Skywalker seemed to have taken a bit of pleasure in it. Safely down on the ground, Rex had managed to scrape up his own remnant of humor.

" _Next time just tell me to jump."_

" _Now, where's the fun in that?"_

But the dream was different from the reality. In his dreams, Rex had no fear as he went plunging towards the ground.

He knew they were there to catch him. General Skywalker. Commander Tano.

The ride earthward had become something academic, something to observe, knowing that his two Jedi officers had his back. They valued him too much to let anything happen to him.

But it was not a one-sided thing – at least, he did not want it to be.

The other dream reminded him of this.

He was sitting outside a tent – a makeshift tent – the burned out ruins of some ship or other hovering on the edge of his awareness.

It was dark outside.

His task was to protect the general, though in his dream, he was never sure where the general was or what he was protecting him from.

It was the same every time. A creature—something out of a nightmare—was intent upon attacking General Skywalker. It was Rex's duty to keep him safe, and he was ready to give his life to do so . . .

" _Rex . . . behind you—"_

Rex turned to see only a dark, looming shadow before waking up in a sweat.

Maridun. The Mastiff Phalones.

Awake, the details came back to him in glaring clarity.

But unlike the dreams of the wall, where Rex knew his Jedi officers would save him; this dream, reflecting the reality of the event, where he had been the one responsible for protecting General Skywalker, never ceased to distress him.

He never felt the confidence to avert the danger, even though, in real life, he actually had. He feared that when the general would need him the most, he wouldn't be there. Or worse, he would be there and still unable to save him.

It was a lousy dream upon which to end any length of sleep, and so he let himself sink back once more into the cloudy depths, searching for some happier dream-enhanced recollection to cap off the round.

Not unexpectedly, his mind took him back to that same place but for only the briefest of moments. Only long enough for him to find himself pounding along beside someone, running for his life.

 _Bly._

 _It's Bly. Fek and all, we're not going to make it!_

But they did make it. Rex didn't need to see that in his dream. He knew it intrinsically as part of the dream history. It was what followed next that always lifted Rex's spirit and carried him back to a time before the trouble on Maridun, before Bly had made commander, before the kama and the pauldron. When Rex was still CT-7567 and Bly was still CT-5052.

" _Get the fek off me!"_

" _You asked for this! You're getting what—damn!—what you—ow! Fek!"_

" _We're going to get disqualified!"_ That was Cody's voice. _"Damn it! We're all going to—"_

The ship in which they were traveling suddenly leveled out.

" _They've taken back control."_ CT-1944. He sounded irritated. _"We're all screwed."_

" _This is your fault."_ Rex had made the accusation first, yet there had been something so proud, so arrogant in his voice. It was, after all, the overflow from what was in his heart, and he'd been quite pleased with the fact that this little cadre had managed to muff up the entire scenario . . .

Bly, before he had become _Bly_ , glared back at him for one angry, intense moment and that was where the dream deviated from reality. In the dream, Bly burst into laughter and suddenly the group of them – Rex, Cody, Bly, Gree, and Wolffe . . . of course, the only one who'd had a name then was Cody . . . the five of them were sitting around a fire. A fire in the woods.

" _We're your squad now. And when we've all gone off to our own assignments, we'll still be your squad."_

Yes, this was what Rex wanted on his mind as he moved closer to wakefulness.

At last, he sat up slowly and stretched. He answered the call of nature then returned to sit on the side of bed, looking across the room at the armor that he had not worn in nearly three weeks. The armor that was the most visible symbol of the man beneath – a source of pride and identity. He was ready to wear it again, even though he recognized that doing so would draw a clear line of demarcation between the idyllic life within the Monastica and the return to the business of war. The halcyon days spent in the company of the brothers and sisters were drawing to an end. They would finish as they had begun . . . surrounded by a protective shield of armor.

He was about to stand up and regain that shield when a knock came at the door.

In a whimsical sort of way, he hoped it was Maree; but that seemed unlikely.

"Come in!" he said in a raised voice.

The door opened to reveal Cody standing on the threshold. He saw Rex sitting naked on the edge of the bed, and while this was common practice among clones—what did they have to hide? they were all the same—Cody considered that Rex might want to be a bit more discretionary, given the fact that they were quartered among the local populace – a religious one, at that. It could have been any one of them at the door.

"Good, I was coming to see if you were awake," Cody announced, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

"Yeah, good morning," Rex said with a yawn.

"It's afternoon, Rex," the commander informed him. "We have that briefing in two hours. That's why I'm here, to make sure you don't oversleep."

"Afternoon?" Rex was shocked. "How long have I been sleeping?"

"Almost 16 hours," Cody replied.

"You should have woken me up," Rex scolded. "You say we've got two hours?"

"Actually, less than that. We're catching a shuttle to the Resolute in about an hour, so make sure you're ready. We're leaving from outside the Taber south entrance."

"Right, right. I'll be there," Rex assured him.

"I think you might want to wear your armor—"

"What, you think I'm going to show up like this?"

Cody shook his head with a grin. "I meant your armor as opposed to the tunic. It's time to get back in military mode."

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. You know, my commo and all the circuitry in my helmet is still fried," Rex pointed out. "Remind me to drop it off with supply when we're shipside. I'll just have to use a spare until they can fix it." A pause. "What have I missed in the past 16 hours?"

"Lot of the same. Recovery ops still going on," Cody answered. "The Doma did ask the generals if we'd all come to a funeral ceremony for the people who were killed in the attack. It's at sunset, so if we're back from the briefing in time, I think both generals plan to attend, and we can attend to, if we want."

"Hm," Rex nodded. "That's more than we ever get to do for our own dead. Are you going?"

"I am."

"So will I."

"Good. Better get a move on if you want to make that shuttle. General Skywalker won't be happy if he has to come looking for you," Cody warned.

"Don't worry. I'll be there," Rex assured him.

Cody gave a curt nod then departed.

Almost immediately, the door cracked open once more, and Cody craned his head around the corner. "You have a visitor." A shrewd grin tugged at his mouth. "You might want to cover up."

When Cody's face disappeared, the door opened a bit wider.

Maree looked inside.

Rex quickly drew the sheet over his lap. "Maree, oh, I wasn't . . . I wasn't expecting you."

"I've barely seen you in three days," she said, crossing easily to where he sat.

Rex noted that she seemed not in the least discomfited by his awkward situation. He imagined that, as a member of a healing order, Maree had seen many naked and near-naked bodies. Why, she had even told him quite frankly that she had already seen him naked when he had been a patient. So, it was only natural that she would not find anything erotic in discovering him in such a state.

"Commander Cody told me you'd finally given in and gone to bed," she said, sitting down beside him. "I wanted to see if you were alright."

"I'm fine," he replied. "I must have really needed that sleep. I was out for a long time."

"Cody told me you have a meeting in a few hours," Maree stated. "On your ship." A pause. "Will you be coming back?"

"Yes," he answered. "We have that ceremony for the dead."

Their conversation was very factual, very impersonal.

"And after that?"

Rex could hear the trepidation in her voice. The reality of their dwindling time was bearing down on her. She wanted to know what would happen next, but Rex had no good answers.

"I think we're here for a few more days, then we'll be leaving. Beyond that . . . I don't know." He felt completely inadequate to navigate his way through the moment. He managed a thin smile. "But you're the one for answers," he insisted. "You have a better understanding of how things happen and why."

"You give me too much credit."

They sat in silence for a long time. There was a certain comfort just being in each other's company, an understanding that words were not necessary.

At length, Rex announced, "I have to get ready for the briefing. The general will have my head if I'm late."

Maree grinned and stood up. "You make him sound very severe, but he seems perfectly amiable to me."

Her statement rested well with Rex. "You've had a chance to spend some time with him?"

"A very little," Maree replied.

"And your opinion?"

"Like I said, he seems friendly and . . . decent." There was a hanging question in her voice, and Rex did not fail to notice it.

"Is that all? You sound like you want to say something else," he prompted.

Maree was quiet for a moment as she considered how to respond. "I think . . . in his case, I can see how the Jedi prohibition against attachment might be important." She looked mystified. "I don't know what it is, but there's something in his soul that—even from just the few moments I've spent with him or observed him, I can see he is a man of great passion. The attack on his men is something he feels as a personal assault." She hesitated. "And in his presence, I can feel the Force swirling around and within him. I usually can't feel the Force to such a degree. The fact that I can feel it in General Skywalker . . . there's a lot of untapped power."

Rex listened intently. "He's a great general. A great Jedi. Unfortunately, the Jedi Council doesn't quite see it that way." He stood up purposefully, holding the sheet in front of him. "But that's a subject for another time. I have to get ready for the briefing."

Maree got to her feet. "Of course. But I'll see you this evening at the ceremony."

"I'll be there."

It seemed an inadequate parting.

He wanted to touch her, to hold her. Truly, he wanted to kiss her.

But to what end? In a few days, he would never see her again. He had to resign himself to that fact.

It was as Cody had said: _time to get back in military mode._

The military part would be easy. It was what he was leaving behind that would be difficult.

 _ ****Notes: yep, three days without sleep would be pushing it, but the clones are bred to be more durable, so I like to think Rex and Co. are able to pull longer hours sans shuteye. The whole scene with Au-Raphe is just meant to stir the pot regarding the Jedi Council's decision to use the clone army. It's a difficult situation from any objective viewpoint, so I wanted to spend a little time on it and also bring across Anakin's feelings on the matter.**_

 _ **I do like Rex's dream flashbacks . . . yet another one of my favorite scenes is when Anakin and Ahsoka throw him off the wall. As soon as Anakin hits the ground, his first action: make sure my captain doesn't go splat. Love it! And the Jedi Crash episode . . . not just because I like that Rex has to protect Anakin, but because I am a fan of Commander Bly, and he plays a larger part in an upcoming arc.**_

 _ **Lastly, I'm always happy to see Cody and Rex together again. I like their interactions in the series, and it's fun to extend those interactions into the fanfic realm.**_

 _ **Thanks for reading!**_


	38. Chapter 38

_**Dear Reader, a short chapter. I was going to make it longer by combining it with what comes next, but I sort of liked ending it where I did. Leaves some good stuff for the next chapter! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 38 Orders

" _The military lead turbulent lives. But they are people, like everyone else."_

General William Westmoreland

* * *

Rex was surprised at how restrictive his armor felt.

He reminded himself that he shouldn't be surprised at all, not after three weeks of wearing the desert-weight cottony lightness of the tunic. At first, the armor felt heavy and cumbersome, but he knew that would pass as he got used to wearing it again. And truth be told, he took a certain amount of comfort from being ensconced in the familiar trappings of his profession. It made him feel invincible, even though he knew he wasn't.

"You look like a soldier again," Cody remarked as they stood together beside the gunship that would take them back to the Resolute.

"So do you," Rex said tongue-in-cheek. "When you first showed up, I thought you might have been demoted to Shinie."

Cody chuckled. When he had set off across the desert nearly four weeks ago, he'd worn the travel garb of the Austeniens and left his armor at the Monastica. Upon being picked up in Heembab, he'd donned one of the spare suits of armor always on-hand as part of each gunship, shuttle and escape pod emergency supply kit. It wasn't until the battle had ended that he'd retrieved his armor and was now recognizable by its telltale markings.

"Well, I'll tell you, there's a big difference between wearing your own kit and borrowing one of the spares," he stated. "A guy gets used to his own glove, you know?"

"Yeah, it's like reconnecting with an old friend," Rex grinned. "And Force knows it's cleaner than it's ever been. They even managed to repair the tears in the glove. Our own shops don't do that."

"That's because it's easier for them to just issue a new body glove," Cody replied. "Down here, they probably reuse things until they disintegrate." An arch smile. "You know, for a people who eschew certain technologies, they're pretty technologically advanced. Sort of a dichotomy, wouldn't you say?"

"I think there are a lot of dichotomies here," Rex agreed.

Cody discerned something in the tone of his voice that seemed to be begging the question, and so he took the bait.

"Like what?"

"Peace-loving religious orders that pack enough firepower to do some serious damage," Rex replied. "Strict religious codes, yet their leaders—their leaders give them the freedom to make their own decisions. All that amazing medical technology, but they still trust in prayer more than anything else." A long, thoughtful pause. "While you were gone, we saw one of their holy figures with our own eyes, Cody. We saw the power he had and the power he gave to the Doma."

Cody could tell Rex was leading up to something. He waited patiently, knowing his friend would get there eventually.

"She was going to use that power to defeat Admiral Vrehnke and his forces," Rex revealed. "Even though she knew it was forbidden, she was going to use that power." He seemed troubled, almost pained, by the memory.

"What stopped her?"

"Au-Mikiel . . . and me," Rex replied.

"Why does that bother you so much?"

Rex considered his words before answering. "For one person to be given that much power . . . a person with flaws just like the rest of us . . . "

"I know I was only here for a few days, but she didn't seem to be at all like _the rest of us_ ," Cody pointed out.

Rex was silent.

Ah, there it was _._ The commander knew the captain well enough to know when his words had hit on a nerve. He also knew that going fishing for answers was not an option with Rex. Rex would reveal whatever was on his mind as he so desired and in his own time.

And for now, all he was willing to offer was, "You missed a lot after you left, Commander."

"I'm sure I'll hear all about it," Cody replied. "Here come the generals."

* * *

"Doma Maree? I'm Commander Tano, General Skywalker's padawan."

Maree hid her surprise well, for she could hardly believe that the scantily-clad teenager she was looking at was a Jedi learner, much less a commander in the Grand Army.

"Commander Tano, I am pleased to meet you," she offered politely.

"Please call me Ahsoka," came the reply. "General Skywalker went back to the Resolute for a briefing, and he asked me to check and see if there was anything you needed while he was gone."

"That was thoughtful of him," Maree said with a smile. "No, there is nothing I need. He told me about the meeting. I just hope he can make it back in time for the funeral ceremony."

"I'm so sorry about all of this," Ahsoka lamented. "It was never the Republic's intention to draw your people into this war."

Maree thought the words seemed odd coming from such a youngster—or youngling, as the Jedi preferred; but she could tell the sentiment was genuine. The padawan's heart was in the right place.

"You sound like Captain Rex," she replied. "It wasn't the clones' choice to crash-land here. But once they did, it was our calling to care for them and protect them as best we could."

Even the mere mention of Rex's name set Ahsoka's heart fluttering. "Rex was probably afraid of drawing you into the war, as well."

Such a simplistic statement, but Maree could tell the girl was trying to be both personable and serious. She wondered how the pressures of being a commander sat on her shoulders. It must have been difficult to take up as a padawan during wartime, being thrust straight into the chain-of-command with men who, while chronologically younger, were in appearance and maturity, much older.

"I think you are precisely correct," Maree agreed. "He certainly did not want to see us suffer."

"Well . . . I want to thank you personally for keeping them safe," Ahsoka said. "We were worried, not knowing what had happened to them." A pause. "But I don't think my master ever doubted Rex's ability to pull them through."

Maree nodded and grinned. "They seem to be the perfect match for each other."

Ahsoka chuckled. "You're right about that. They're both pretty unorthodox. Sometimes, I think they try to outdo each other when it comes to who can come up with the craziest plan. My master usually wins."

"Rex speaks very highly of him," Maree noted. "And I could see, just from the brief time I was with General Skywalker, the feeling is mutual."

Hearing Rex spoken of in such glowing terms warmed Ahsoka's heart. She was discovering that she enjoyed talking about him. The truth was that she'd not really had anyone with whom she could discuss her feelings. Certainly, she could not tell her master. Obi-wan was out of the question. It would be unseemly to discuss it with any of the clone troopers. Her fellow padawan, Barriss Offee, though a friend, was too perfect for Ahsoka to reveal her own shortcomings to. Even Master Plo Koon, almost a father figure to Ahsoka, might not understand how a teenaged padawan could be in love with a clone captain—a subordinate, no less.

And so, even a brief encounter like this one with a stranger whom Ahsoka would never see again after two or three days' time, was an opportunity she snatched up and relished.

"Rex is the greatest clone officer in the entire GAR," Ahsoka enthused. "Though I'm sure others would disagree. Everyone always thinks their soldiers are the best. But Rex really is. He wouldn't be in the 501st if he wasn't."

"I see you share General Skywalker's high opinion of him."

"He's good to work with."

The casualness of this statement, following upon the effusive praise of a moment ago, triggered an alertness in Maree's awareness. It was too nonchalant by far, too easy. Going from "the greatest clone officer in the entire GAR" to "good to work with . . ."

It was clearly an attempt to downplay.

And Maree had an inkling of just what the padawan was trying to soft-pedal.

"A little hard-headed," the Doma partially suggested, and Ahsoka laughed.

"A little? It can be like dealing with a Jemway mule."

"Have you worked with him for very long?" Maree asked, sensing that Ahsoka wanted to talk about her captain, needed to talk about him.

"Since the battle of Christosphsis," Ahsoka replied. "So . . . almost a year." A pause. "It's taken him—and the rest of the men—a long time to get used to me."

"You can understand why, though, can't you?"

"At first, I couldn't. I didn't want them to treat me like a child, and I couldn't understand why they saw me as a youngling," she replied. "And I guess I was . . . I was so anxious to prove myself that I was pretty . . . obnoxious sometimes. And reckless. I'm not like that anymore. I've learned a lot about how to be a leader from my master . . . and Rex. I still make mistakes . . . probably too many of them. But I'd do anything for my men."

"That's very admirable of you," Maree nodded. "They're quite amazing . . . the clones. I would be lying if I said we did not enjoy their company very much these past weeks." She sighed at a realization. "Only one man was opposed to their presence. He betrayed them to the Separatists. He betrayed all of us."

"Is that . . . Fels Au-Gehen?"

"Yes," Maree nodded.

"What will you do with him?"

"That decision belongs to Au-Mikiel and the Austenien Circle of Servants. It is only my part to either approve or disapprove of their decision."

"Was Au-Gehen aligned with the Separatists?"

"No," Maree replied.

"Then why did he turn our men over?"

"He thought they were a threat to our way of life," the Doma explained. "He felt they were distracting our children, making the boys want to be soldiers and . . . well, he was afraid they were a temptation against our young ladies' virtue."

"Their virtue?" Ahsoka sounded almost amused.

"As I'm sure you're aware, the clones are quite charming. Our girls were very taken with them."

Ahsoka shook her head. "I can't even picture it," she said with subdued laughter. "The clones are nothing but business. The only thing ever on their mind is war. Or training for war. Or playing games that sharpen their skills for war."

"I suppose it all depends on their environment," Maree said. "They've been truly . . . wonderful since they've been here. Spending time with our children, dancing—"

"Dancing?!" Ahsoka could not believe her ears.

Maree laughed. "Yes, dancing. And quite good at it, if I must say."

Ahsoka held up her hand. "No, I can't believe that."

"You will get to see it yourself, if you come to the funeral ceremony."

"You—there's dancing at a funeral?"

"Not at the funeral itself, but at the celebration following," Maree explained.

"Celebration?"

"Yes, the ceremony is in two parts. The funeral itself is very somber, but the celebration of life and the anticipation of Finirest is . . . a very joyful occasion," Maree replied. "It is our tradition. The sadness will linger for a long time, but not to the exclusion of joy."

"That's . . . a great way to look at things," Ahsoka said in wonderment. "I don't know if I could do that."

"It's not easy," Maree admitted. "But it's what the souls of the departed deserve, to be feted and celebrated, not just mourned." She returned to the original topic. "So, if you come this evening, and the clones come—they were all invited—you will get to see first-hand that I'm telling the truth."

"Well, I hope I can be there," Ahsoka stated, then testing the waters, she added, "I'm sure Captain Rex didn't dance, though."

"He did."

"Nooo," Ahsoka grinned. "Impossible. He's so serious."

"He is very serious, yes," Maree agreed. "But he did dance, and he was very skilled."

"I'll have to see it to believe it."

"I thought the same thing when I first asked him," Maree added. "In fact, he declined at first. His men had to sort of . . . shame him into it." She smiled at the memory. "They adore him. I told him that, and he was horrified with my choice of words."

"Yep, that sounds like Rex," Ahsoka said knowingly.

After several seconds during which neither of them spoke, Ahsoka concluded with, "Well, if you're sure you don't need anything, I'll go finish making my rounds."

"I thank you for your concern," Maree stated. "I have to go start preparing for the funeral ceremony. I hope you will be able to attend."

"It would be my honor," Ahsoka replied. "I'll have to clear it with General Skywalker first, make sure he doesn't have other duties for me. But I hope to be there."

"Then I look forward to seeing you and talking with you again."

"As do I, Doma."

* * *

"Sector Headquarters just finished decrypting this intercepted message," Admiral Yularen announced. "Take a look at it before the briefing starts. I'll be back in a few minutes. I have a private communication coming through in my office."

The commo officer tapped the holo-projector console. The image that appeared was of one of top Separatist generals – a being half-man and half-machine. General Grievous, Supreme Commander of the Droid Armies.

Grievous had not always been a cyborg. In fact, at one time, he had been a great warrior of the planet Kalee, fully flesh and blood. But in his thirst for greater fighting prowess, he had long ago chosen to _enhance_ his abilities with cybernetic implants. He had come to the attention of Count Dooku well before the war had ever started as a suitable candidate to lead a droid army, given his own particular physical combinations.

He was well-known to Republic military leadership and certainly to the small group now viewing the hologram, although Anakin himself had never had any dealings with him directly. Obi-wan, Cody, and Rex, on the other hand, had come face-to-face with him more than once, and they had all come away with the same impression: Grievous had nothing in his moral code that surpassed his own pursuit of glory. He would abandon his own troops, if he felt threatened. He ran from a fight at the first sign that he might be defeated. He would kill civilians—women, children—even as they begged for their lives.

He kept trophies of the Jedi he had defeated – a morbid collection of lightsabers. And to Grievous, clones were something less human than he himself was. They may be fully organic, but they were nothing more than beasts of burden, forced soldiers, happily kept slaves. They were to be despised almost as much as the Jedi.

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and grating. "Now that the outpost on the Rishi Moon has been destroyed, we have a clear path into that sector," he said.

The image then switched to that of Count Dooku's apprentice, the Dathomirian Night Sister, Asajj Ventress. And she was every bit as fearsome as Grievous, although for different reasons.

Ventress was bizarre in appearance. Tall, gangly – almost awkward. Her skin was greyish and flawless. Her head was completely bald, and she wore a tattooed design both on the back of her head and also running down from the corners of her mouth, giving the impression of a perpertual scowl. Her history was clouded, but none of her adversaries needed to know much of her past in order to recognize that she was very powerful with the Force and very deadly.

Yet, she was not devoid of feeling, like Grievous. She almost seemed to be searching for the final conclusion to some vindictive instinct. What injury resided in her past that she was still seeking vengeance?

"The clone planet of Kamino will be a dangerous target," she said. "It's already been almost two months since the Rishi station was taken out. We've lost the element of surprise."

"I have some ideas for delivering a _surprise_ ," Grievous replied dismissively. "Just make sure you hold up your half of the mission. We must stop the production of new clones if we are to win this war."

The hologram fragmented and disappeared.

Anakin was the first to speak, and his voice was grave. "Kamino."

"They're going to attack our home planet," Rex stated, clearly distressed but steady as always.

"The Separatists are taking quite the chance even considering this," Obi-wan opined in his calm, matter-of-fact manner. But they all knew he was right. The clone facilities of Kamino were among the most heavily protected targets in the Republic. The clones had become the foremost necessity for winning the war.

With characteristic bluster, Rex spoke up. "With all due respect, General, if someone comes to our home, they'd better be carrying a big blaster."

It was not a surprising thing to hear coming from Rex, and it showed Anakin that his captain was already regaining his footing as first-in-command, moving from the world of indulgence and a woman's comfort, back to the world of war and its waging.

"I concur with Captain Rex, Sir." This, from Cody. "This is personal for us clones."

"We'll make sure Kamino is secure," Anakin assured them.

"Let's find out what they have to say at the briefing," Obi-wan cautioned. "We don't want to get ahead of ourselves. They might not even send us."

"Oh, they'll send us," Anakin said. "If I have anything to say about it, they'll send us." He glanced at Rex and inclined his head.

Rex acknowledged with a nod.

Now, they just had to wait for the briefing to commence.

* * *

"We're diverting Battle Groups V7 and V8 from SECAR 2. We've got four brigade combat teams coming from SECAR 9. Two special ops groups are already on Kamino for cyclical training, and then there's the permanent ARC cadre. SECAR 19 Fleet is coming in to set up a blockade."

The general giving the briefing was the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, Lieutenant General Matte Whichum – humanoid from a Coruscant family with a long history of military service. Flanked by Jedi Generals Mace WIndu and Yoda on one side and Space Ops Admiral Joku Laku on the other, he was a man who wasted no words.

"From what other intelligence we've been able to gather, it looks as if we will still need at least two more brigade-size elements if we hope to defeat the Separatists at Kamino. They're amassing forces at the edge of the Kovar system, but the ships appear to be mostly engineering and repair frigates. We're still not fully sure what they're up to, what the thrust of their attack will be," Whichum went on. "But we want overwhelming numbers and firepower on our side. I don't need to tell any of you of the importance of these cloning factories."

Beside Rex, Cody could sense when his brother wanted to look at him, make eye contact, convey some message or other. Even though Rex had not moved, had not diverted his own gaze, it was almost as if some telepathic link joined the two men, and Cody knew intrinsically that Rex had found something off-putting in what the general had just said.

And the commander figured he knew what is was.

 _Cloning factories._

It seemed to bother some clones – Rex among them – to hear his birth place referred to as a factory. It rankled him even more to hear his birth referred to as a manufacture. Yes, he had been created without the traditional mother and father, conceived in a test tube, incubated and nourished in an artificial womb made of glass. He'd been raised by mostly mechanical hands, machines void of emotion, droids programmed only to perform the functions necessary to keep a newborn baby healthy and functioning. Even as he'd gotten older, self-aware as a small child, everything on Kamino had been designed to produce the cool, level-headed, non-questioning soldier.

But, of course, such attempts at full control of the clone population could not fully escape the tweaks to the environment wrought by the very clones for whom the strict regimen existed. Bubbles of personality burst up without warning, often enticing others to follow suit. The calm equanimity so drilled into them during training was not immune to the occasional flurry of emotion: the angry rant, the hilarious breakdown, the fearful unknown of what the battlefield would really be like.

The precision of a factory might well be present in the cloning facilities—the attempt to reduce the reject rate certainly was—but there was also humanity, varying degrees of deviation from the template, and something the Kaminoans had never expected: the deepening of the bond between soldiers into the bond between brothers.

Brothers.

And brothers weren't the product of factories. Brothers were the product of a connection in the heart, in the mind. A closeness that no combination or manipulation of DNA could guarantee.

Cody shifted slightly to let Rex know he could sense what he was feeling, knowing full well that this slight acknowledgment would be enough to simmer Rex's ruffled feathers – for the time-being, at least.

General Windu picked up where Whichum had left off.

"Generals Kenobi and Skywalker, we are going to have to recall your Battle Group to take part in Kamino's defenses. We know you're providing protection on Bertegad pending the arrival of the recovery team. They should be arriving with the next two planetary rotations." A pause. "We can't wait that long. We need all our forces in place as soon as possible. I want you underway within eight hours. Bertegad should be safe for the next few days. There are no reports of any enemy ships in the area. Admiral Yularen, can you have the fleet ready to go on such short notice? I understand you have a lot of engineering troops on the ground."

"We can move out the main body," Admiral Yularen replied. "I will leave one battalion of the 40th here to continue with recovery. We'll pull back the other battalion and be underway. I don't think it will matter much if we are minus one engineering battalion."

"Agreed," Whichum nodded. "We'll be transmitting the coordinates for the assembly point as soon as we're done with this briefing. Are there any questions? No? Very well. Await the operations order. And remember . . . this is a must-win battle. Good day, gentlemen."

 _ **So, a little bit with Ahsoka there. More to come in the next chapter. Some intrigue, let's say. Also, no, I haven't forgotten that So'Nodor was one of the betrayers, too. That's coming as well! Lastly, I like Cody's ruminations about Rex, how he knows what Rex is thinking without even having to look at him, and he conveys his own acknowledgment without words. I really love to examine the relationship between these two, and I hope my version of their friendship will do my head canon justice!**_


	39. Chapter 39

_**Dear Reader, Thanks again to my reviewers, LLTC, OrangePotato, CRB35, FreedomPhantom, and to my followers (who are too shy to post a review! :-) ) Now, when you read this chapter (especially the end), just remember this is very long story, so don't have a conniption! The world has not come to an end! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 39 Forever to Be Alone

" _You'll know how many times I've had wonder,  
watching my soul rifting under.  
Oh, I do love you, only as much as I can do.  
The feeling's too strong now to undo.  
Please never try.  
Lover, please hurry home."_

 _Forever to Be Alone_  
Justin Hayward

* * *

The trip back down to Bertegad and the Monastica was much quieter than usual.

Not that Cody had expected Rex to be conversational—he rarely was; but it was not like Rex to brood, and that appeared to be precisely what he was doing. The two of them were in the rear of the gunship, Cody holding onto the overhead grip, Rex leaning back against the fuselage with his arms crossed over his chest, helmet hanging from a belt clip.

Closer to the front of the troop bay, Generals Kenobi and Skywalker were discussing some matter—probably the new mission—and in between the generals and their clone officers, a half dozen or so troopers returning to the surface made a good barrier.

Cody liked to exercise discretion whenever possible, yet he knew that the Jedi had a way of overhearing that which was meant to be private. Sometimes, he wondered if they could read lips . . . or minds.

The handful of clones between them gave him the cover he needed.

"You still upset about what General Whichum said back there?" Cody asked.

"Maybe . . . a little," Rex answered.

He was noncommittal, and the commander picked up on that fact right away.

"Then what? I can tell something's on your mind."

After a brief hesitation, Rex replied, "I just thought we'd have more time here."

"What, three—four—weeks wasn't enough for you?" Cody jibed.

Rex drew in a long breath. "Too long . . . and not long enough."

Cody raised a brow and regarded him dubiously. "Are you trying to confuse me on purpose, or is there some point to what you just said?"

"It's amazing how quickly a man can grow to feel at home in a place," came the reply, spoken slowly and with careful attention paid to the choice of each word.

"By that, can I assume you're referring to yourself?" Cody posed.

"Not just me," Rex protested. "The others felt it, too. I think we all did." A self-conscious pause. "Though some to a greater extent than others."

Cody grinned. "If you tell me you want to become an Austenien, I won't believe you."

"Huh, don't worry," Rex replied evenly. "I'm not going to tell you that. Even if the choice were mine to make, I'm hardly cut out for that kind of life."

"Do you wish you were?" Cody prompted.

"No, no," Rex answered, with a mock scowl to furrow his brow. "I might admire them and the life they have, but it's not for me." A pause. "It isn't what I want."

Cody regarded him thoughtfully. "But you're not ready to leave. Why? I know you better than anyone, Rex. There's not enough action here to keep you satisfied for even half a day. I thought you'd be the first one onboard to get out of here – no matter how beautiful and peaceful it is. You've never been a peaceful man, Rex. What's going on?"

Rex shook his head. "It just . . . caught me by surprise."

"What?"

Rex gestured subtly towards the other occupants of the gunship, making it clear he did not want to take a chance on anyone overhearing their conversation.

Cody nodded his understanding.

This discussion – whatever it was about – would have to wait for another time.

But, knowing Rex, Cody suspected there was a good chance the subject would never be broached again.

* * *

"One of us should still attend the funeral ceremony," Obi-wan stated. "It's the proper thing to do. And the clones who crashed here should have the choice to attend, if they desire. We need to put everyone else to work getting ready to redeploy."

"Agreed," Anakin replied. "But I think we can both attend the ceremony. I can put Top in charge of redeployment. He'll get them started. We don't have much heavy equipment down here, except for what the engineers brought, and Admiral Yularen already said he'd leave one battalion. So, that's a lot of stuff we won't have to pack out. I think it's important to show our appreciation for what these people have been through on our account."

Obi-wan considered. "I agree. I think Top can manage things. Let's see how our newest ARC trooper handles responsibility."

Anakin gave a cheeky grin. "He'll have them packed out in five minutes."

"I don't doubt it."

* * *

The funeral procession left from the Taber, where the engineers had halted their work out of respect for the solemnity of the occasion.

Two Shempa, festooned with colors not usually associated with mourning—reds and oranges and yellows—led the way, followed by 53 Losla-drawn carts, one for each decedent and attended by those closest to the dead. Behind the Losla, Doma Maree walked with Au-Mikiel at her side.

Generals Kenobi and Skywalker were next, accompanied by a host of brothers, Au-Raphe among them, and behind them came the rest.

The clones, while near the front of the throng, mixed in with the crowd, with the brothers and sisters they had come to know: Au-Josat, Au-Trava, Au-Cepha, Au- Sinti. Echo walked between Sister Anaide on one side while holding Yusani's hand on the other.

Au-Ogusta walked with Rex and Cody.

The commander had already informed him of their accelerated departure.

"Then this will be a doubly sad day," the brother lamented. "We will be sad to see you go."

"We'll be sad to leave," Rex replied with such genuine gravity that it made Cody take notice. "Your people have been very good to us."

"I only wish there was more we could do," Ogusta sighed.

If Cody had been surprised at Rex's tone, the captain's next words almost stopped him in his tracks.

"Just keep praying. That's good enough."

Cody had certainly taken Rex at his word when he'd said he hadn't suddenly turned religious. But now, more than ever, he was convinced that something had happened during his absence that had . . . tempered his friend's impetuousness, softened just a bit— _just a bit_ —of the bravado. Could it be tact and diplomacy he was witnessing? A newfound willingness to show some small part of the emotion he hitherto always kept hidden?

Almost as if sensing Cody's bafflement, Rex spoke sideways to him. "Something on your mind, Commander?" It was almost a challenge . . .

. . . and Cody never backed down from a challenge, though he was not opposed to deferring one.

"Nothing that can't wait," he replied.

They continued on past the Wayward Houses and the residences, even past the Doma's residence. In the northwestern most corner of the Monastica, they came to a vast structure, a mausoleum, with a large half-circular area before it, large enough to accommodate a sizeable gathering.

Rex had seen the place before in his wanderings, but he'd not asked what it was.

Now, he knew.

As the carts were drawn up in front of the great main doors, the mourners began to gather around the perimeter. Rex and Cody stood not far from their generals.

Au-Mikiel then began to sing a somber requiem melody in the words of his native tongue. As the others joined in, the Republic contingent listened respectfully.

For Rex, there was something both hauntingly beautiful and tragically melancholy about the tune. If it were meant to mark the end of one life and the beginning of another, he felt that he had a certain understanding of the idea.

As his eyes turned to Doma Maree, standing on the raised dais atop one of the Shempas, singing the same lilting song as the rest, looking composed and pious, he knew that the part of his life wherein she resided was nearly over. In less than eight hours, he would be once more aboard the Resolute, on his way to war, likely never to return to this place.

These past four weeks – these had comprised a whole different life that he'd never known existed, that he could not have even imagined.

And all centered around the feelings he had for one woman.

A woman he would leave behind in eight hours and never see again. A woman with whom he'd known from the start that he could never have a romantic relationship. Even if he'd been free, she wasn't. He'd known that! He'd known, and he'd shrugged it off, allowing himself to fall further and further into a dream-filled mire of 'what-if' and 'wouldn't it be nice'.

His own will power had proven woefully insufficient to stop him from falling in love—

" _Damn! Falling in love . . . "_

Yes, that was what he'd done.

The image arose unbidden in his mind of the Me'Ente Loge festival, dancing with Maree.

" _I believe falling in love would be impossible to avoid, if it is meant to be."_

That was what she said to him. Prescient words, indeed.

" _In what capacity a lover chooses to act upon that love is another matter altogether."_

There. She had given him an out . . . or given herself an out. They both knew they had no future together, regardless of what course the war took.

" _But she needs to know,"_ Rex told himself. _"She deserves to know. And . . . I need to know."_

He could not account for why he was making such demands. In fact, his reason told him that the best thing would be to put the whole thing behind him and move on – for both their goods. Yet, the part of him that insisted on decency and full disclosure refused to allow it.

" _Full disclosure . . . you won't even let your guard down around your own men. You keep so much hidden from them, why should this be any different?"_

He answered his own question, but not to his liking.

" _Because the men see right through me. But . . . does she?"_ He felt his shoulders sag under an unseen weight. _"I'll be damned if I'm going to leave here without finding out. We may not be able to do anything about it, but . . . I want to know."_

* * *

Maree had presided over many funeral ceremonies. And she had given every one of them her full attention, including this one. There were hymns and chants and the internment rites. Au-Mikiel gave a moving speech of the anticipated Finirest of the souls and the idea that the soul had not left the body, but rather that the body had left the soul. The body had come to its end, while the soul continued on.

Maree listened to his eloquent words—she always loved hearing Au-Mikiel speak. He was truly one of the holiest men she had ever known. And one of the most compassionate. As she listened to him, she allowed her gaze to wander over the gathered crowd, but more than a few times, her eyes returned to Rex, standing near the front, beside General Skywalker.

She had never seen him in his full armor before—when she had first encountered him in the healing rooms, he had already been stripped down to his body glove. And now, this first look had taken her breath away. Where she had considered him to be a very fine figure of a man before, what she saw now was so striking, so brilliant that the brightest gem could only mourn its dullness in comparison.

Here was the soldier with which he so identified. Here was the source of his pride, the motive for his conviction.

Here was the clone captain, first-in-command of the elite 501st Battalion of which he spoke with such fervor and covetousness.

He was no longer just Rex . . . or even Captain Rex.

He was the pinnacle of what it meant to be a clone officer.

" _That's who he really is,"_ Maree remarked to herself, allowing a moment's distraction. _"He's . . . he's stunning."_

At length, the funeral concluded, and the crowd slowly began to disperse on its way to the pavilion, where the celebration of life would be held.

Maree headed back as well, and she found herself shortly accompanied by the two Jedi generals and their firsts-in-command.

"Doma Maree, that was a very touching ceremony," Obi-wan said graciously. "Thank you for inviting us to be a part of it."

"I am glad you could attend, General Kenobi."

"As am I," Obi-wan replied. "But unfortunately, I'm afraid we cannot go to the celebration. We've received orders to be underway in eight hours. We must start preparations for departure."

Anakin looked at the Doma, trying to see if he could read anything in her reaction. Cody, on the other hand, was watching Rex.

But there was nothing for either of them to see.

"I am very sorry to hear that," Maree lamented. "Is there anything we can do to help you prepare?"

"I thank you, no," came the reply. "We'll be leaving one of the engineering battalions here until the recovery team arrives, and that should be in a day or two."

"Very good," Maree nodded.

Rex watched her. She betrayed no hint of sadness beyond that already expressed with regard to their departure, and Rex silently complimented her composure. He trusted his own self-possession was at least comparable.

"You will, at least, come to us before you depart, won't you?" Maree asked.

"Absolutely," Obi-wan replied. "I think none of the men would be happy if they didn't have the chance to say good-bye."

Maree looked to Rex. "You will know where to find us. We'll be at the pavilion."

Rex nodded.

With that, the Jedi and their men left the Doma and her entourage. Both groups had very different tasks to attend to.

* * *

Kix could hear them coming well before they even got to his room.

It could never be said that his squad mates were timid or quiet; and now that Top was there to round out the fold, a heightened sense of bravado and enthusiasm seemed to have returned.

His presence reminded them that they were still the best. Five clones alike in genetics but as different as the moons of Kandahar in personality and temperament. They were a family within a family, bound together by things more enduring and powerful than blood or oath. In their collective arrogance, they'd learned something about humility; and yet, that lesson was what continued to propel them to the top now that they were on active duty. The egotism they all shared . . . it was the face they showed; but it was not just a mask, for there was truth beneath it. Only now, there was so much more. They had grown together into a perfect fighting ensemble, and they all considered themselves fortunate to have landed under the command of men like Captain Rex and General Skywalker. It was as if their niche had been waiting for them.

The captain had commented often on the peculiar nature of their squad. Jesse: serious and calculating both on and off the battlefield, but with the occasional wild streak that set them all back on their heels. Hardcase, who lived, ate, and breathed weapons, ready to go head-to-head with any enemy any time, a hothead, to own the truth, but fully loyal to his captain. Pitch, perhaps the most unpredictable of them all, madly in love with explosives and turning things into rubble, but always steady and reliable. Top, who almost defied explanation, a superstitious, sentimental ground-pounder with nerves that never wavered, combat skills that never faltered, and an overbearing personality that could be brutish one moment and kitten-like the next. And then there was Kix: rational, thoughtful, compassionate—sometimes, too much so, according to the captain—he was the glue that held Saber Squad together, and they all knew it. Captain Rex had remarked more than once that, despite Jesse's leadership and level-headedness, there were times when the testosterone was in perhaps a bit too abundant supply and the squad members had deemed themselves indestructible – or something close to it. Kix had always been the one to remind them of their status as mortals. And while Kix normally detested those prone to headstrong braggadocio, in the case of his squad mates, he was willing to make an exception. Sometimes, he even allowed himself to be caught up in it.

Now, as they entered his room together, a smile formed on his face.

"We have come to take you back to the Resolute," Top announced with all the flourish and fanfare of a royal announcement.

"It takes all four of you to do that?" Kix poked.

"Apparently so," Jesse replied.

"Well, if I may be so bold, it only takes _one ARC trooper_ to do the job—" Top began, but Hardcase cut him off.

"And us three to make sure he doesn't botch it up."

Kix shook his head. "I think you all may botch it up anyway." A pause. "I didn't think we were leaving so soon."

"Orders came in," Jesse explained. "The generals said we have to ship out in eight hours—six hours now."

"What's up?"

"We don't know yet." Again, Jesse answered. "We were only told to pack out everything and get ready to go. I'm sure they'll fill us in once we're underway. They're leaving one of the engineering battalions behind to help out until the recovery team gets here."

Kix nodded thoughtfully then he looked from one brother to the next in turn. "So, what, you were all detailed to pack me out? Seems you could be put to better use."

"We volunteered to pack out all our injured," Jesse informed him. "It's only a handful or so, but we wanted to do it."

"The Resolute has medical teams who can do that—"

"For frick's sake, would you try not arguing with us?!" Top bellowed. "I just finished overseeing that cattle drive out there for the last two hours while the generals were at that funeral ceremony! Now, I'm doing this, and—" He gestured towards Jesse, Hardcase and Pitch, "—so are they, so just sit back, relax, and let us pack you the hell out of here!"

Hardcase and Pitch exchanged glances of subtle amusement.

Kix smiled innocently. "Of course." A pause, and a glint of revenge shone in his eye. "But you know, I really can't walk yet, not very well or very far. You're going to have to find a way to move me. I think I'd be most comfortable if you found a . . . a nice platform sort of thing, you know, like they use sometimes to carry kings around—"

"What?" Top stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.

Beside the newest ARC trooper, Jesse spoke quietly as Kix continued with his list of demands. "You started this."

* * *

It didn't feel the same.

Not the same as it had during the Me'Ente Loge festival.

And the change was not owing solely to the difference in purpose between the two occasions. After all, the celebration following the funeral was supposed to joyous. The food, the music, the dancing . . .

Those in attendance appeared to be having a good time, recalling the lives of the deceased with fondness, humor, and some tears.

Maree moved from group to group, sharing in their recollections and contributing some of her own. But to her shame, her heart was not in it. At a time when she should have been focused on her people and their needs and their sorrows, she found herself thinking of her own sadness. It was like awaking from a dream, only to find that the reality had lost some of its sweetness.

Now, she almost felt as if the twilight through which she was literally passing marked the twilight of an era: the era before the arrival of the clones, before Rex. There was no going back. She could not un-know him. She could not pretend she had not felt something for him that went beyond the sort of agape love she felt for creation, in general. And now, she could not imagine a universe where he went about his life and she went about hers, never to meet again.

That was what the reality would be; but still, she could not picture such a future.

And it was better not to try.

The Creator would give her whatever grace and strength she needed to persevere. After all, it was the Creator who had brought Rex into her life. Whatever the purpose had been, Maree trusted that it would all redound to the good.

But that made it no easier.

She looked at the time piece that hung on one of the pavilion's corner pillars.

" _Only three more hours . . . "_ For the first time in many years, perhaps centuries, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes, and crying in public was something she tried her best not to do. _"No, this won't do . . . just step out for a few minutes. It will pass."_

* * *

"Rex."

"Yes, General."

"Looks like we're just about done," Anakin observed. "Good job."

"Thank you, Sir."

Anakin mused to himself, _"Yep, there he is. He's back. All business."_ Then, aloud, he loosened the reins a bit. "We've only got about three hours left. You might want to let your men have that time to say any good-byes. I know a lot of friendships were formed."

"Are you sure you won't be needing them, Sir?"

"We've got plenty of guys on the ground to finish up what still needs to be done," Anakin replied. "Cut your guys loose." A pause. "You, too."

"Thank you, Sir," Rex nodded. "There _are_ some people I'd like to thank before we go."

"Be at the gunship at 2330 sharp," Anakin concluded.

"I will, Sir. Thank you, General."

* * *

He saw her leaving the pavilion just as he arrived.

Whereas a week ago, he would have exercised the greatest discretion in making sure he caught up with her; this time, he skirted around the outside, moving at a fast clip while trying not to look so urgent that he caused alarm.

Damn, but the pavilion was huge, and it was taking him a long time to get around it. When he got to the other side, Maree was nowhere in sight.

"Fek and all," came the rare curse, spoken under his breath. He ran a few steps to the entrance to one of the paths but saw no one. The next path had people on it, but not the Doma.

" _She couldn't have gone that far,"_ Rex told himself. _"She's got to be nearby—"_

"Captain Rex?"

Rex turned to see Au-Linus behind him.

"Are you looking for someone?" the brother inquired.

"Doma Maree," Rex replied.

"She just walked down Ellipse path," Au-Linus said.

"Towards the Seiba Tops?"

"I don't know if that's where she was going. But that's the path she took."

"Thank you, Linus." And then, despite his hurry, Rex realized he owed the brother more than this paltry thanks. "For everything," he said, holding out his hand. "You probably saved my life."

Linus grinned as he returned the handshake. "Oh, you weren't hurt that badly."

"But knowing me, I would have kept going until I collapsed," Rex countered. "I've been told I'm a pretty rotten patient."

"You didn't seem to be so very terrible here," Au-Linus replied. "I was glad to have been able to treat you. Caring for the soldiers who protect us . . . that was an amazing feeling."

"I think you and the brothers and sisters are the ones who are amazing. Thank you again."

"You'd better hurry if you want to catch the Doma. She could turn off that path, and it would take you forever to find her," Linus smiled kindly. "Safe journeys, Captain Rex. Be careful . . . and victorious."

Rex gave a single nod then headed off down the Ellipse path.

As soon as he was out of sight, he broke into a trot, hoping with each bend, that Maree would appear ahead of him. But after going nearly a half a klick, he realized she was not ahead of him anymore. There was no way she was moving that fast unless she was running . . . and that seemed unlikely.

"Oh, no," he groaned, stopping and throwing his head back in despair. "Where could she have gone?"

He turned around and began walking back, bemoaning the fact that General Skywalker's benevolence was apparently going to come to naught. The rest of his men would find their friends and say their farewells, while he would be reduced to five minutes shipside without even a moment of privacy.

"Rex!"

It was Maree's voice, coming from behind him.

He whirled around to see her emerging from one of the side paths; and whatever urge he might have been feeling to run towards her and put his arms around her, he tempered that desire with the composure he saw in the Doma as she approached him.

The darkness was increasing, but there was still enough light for Rex to see the sheen in her eyes as he held out his gloved hands.

She placed her own hands in his and smiled up at him—the kind of wilted smile of strength in the face of sadness.

"What's this all about?" Rex asked, raising one hand with hers still clasped within, to her cheek.

"Surely, you don't need to ask me that," she replied, still smiling.

"No, I . . . guess not," Rex replied.

An awkward silence fell between them before Maree spoke, and despite the wretched smile, she sounded sincere. "You look very handsome."

"Oh—uh, you've seen me looking like this before," he replied, not sure of what else to say.

"No, no, I haven't," Maree corrected. "When I first saw you in the examining room, you were only in the black suit. Your armor was already off." A pause. "And I must say . . . I thought you were handsome before, but this . . . you're not only gallant, you're dashing. When I look at you now, I feel like I'm seeing . . . the whole you. It's like . . . looking at the face of the sun."

Rex inclined his head in a gesture meant to be humble – even bashful. But the truth was, he was neither, and so the gesture was even more endearing, falsehood that it was.

"That's pushing it a bit far, don't you think?" he said.

Maree shook her head slowly. "No . . . Rex."

She was regarding him steadily.

" _Waiting for me to say something . . . or do something."_ And Rex was never one to back down when the going got a bit rough. In fact, he relished a challenge and never failed to rise to the occasion.

"I thought we'd have more time together," he said, noticing how different it felt to hold her hands when he couldn't really feel them. The gloves that protected him also came between them. He didn't like that sense of separation.

"As did I," Maree concurred. She hesitated a moment, then added, "But does it really matter? A day or two? A week? Even a month? Anything less than eternity wouldn't be enough." She drew in a trembling breath. "And we—we _will_ have eternity."

"But not the present," Rex concluded.

"No . . . not the present," she echoed.

"Then . . . I want to know something before we leave," Rex said, and he spoke in perhaps a more authoritative voice than he'd intended; but he was determined to maintain his stoicism. "Do you love me?"

Maree's expression softened. "You have a habit of asking questions to which the answer is already obvious."

"Maybe. But I'd like to hear you say it."

She almost laughed at his regimented manner. Perhaps it was his return to the armor that suddenly made him seem more aggressive, for there was certainly nothing halting or timorous in how he was acting. And for this, Maree was appreciative, for her own courage seemed to be lagging.

"I do love you," she replied. "Rex, I love you very much."

Rex appeared to be inside his head for a moment, coming to some kind of resolution. When he returned his gaze to hers again, he spoke with a sense of finality.

"Then I can wait."

"Wait . . . "

"Until eternity. If there is such a thing," Rex replied.

Maree stared at him. As the realization of what he was saying dawned on her, a sudden feeling of remorse took root deep inside her.

"Rex, that—that's not—I don't think you realize what you're saying," she stammered. "If you make such a pledge, it wouldn't be fair to you. There's no way you could maintain that kind of . . . separation from . . . " She took a step back, turned away, and shook her head, flustered. "You will meet women, and they will be free to love you in the way you . . . in the way you will want. And it stands to reason that when the war is over, you'll be free to love as you please, and . . . it isn't realistic or fair for a man to forego every other woman who might love him because he is waiting for—for—"

"For you." He put his hands on her shoulders and stood behind her. "I know what's fair and what isn't. And I may be a soldier who has to follow orders, but there are plenty of times when I make my own decisions. You won't be able to talk me out this. I don't want you to try."

Maree turned and found herself face-to-face with him. He was not backing down.

"There's no telling how long it will be before eternity is even open to the souls—"

"Would you be happy knowing I was out there and in love with another woman?" Rex asked bluntly.

"Once you leave here, I won't know what—" Maree replied in a feeble attempt to deflect the point.

But Rex was having none of it. "You know what I mean. Can you honestly tell me that you would be okay if I fell in love with someone else?"

Maree frowned. "No, of course not. But I would understand it, because the other part of that scenario is that I am not free to be with you in the way you—in the way you—"

"We can't have sex," Rex helped her out. "Yes, I know that. But you're the one who said that love isn't just limited to the physical."

"Not _limited_ to; but Rex, you would—a man like you—you would want to have a woman who can love you in that way."

"Yes, that's true," he replied. "But I want you more." He looked directly into her eyes. "Listen, I'm conditioned to live under hardships, to do without all kinds of things. Whatever you decide, I've already made my decision. It would give me a lot more peace of mind to know you feel the same way."

"I . . . can only do what I can do," Maree said in a near whisper. "My love for you won't die, but I fear . . . with the . . . life that you lead, you may grow weary of waiting. If you do, I won't fault you for that. Rex . . . time alters all our feelings."


	40. Chapter 40

**Dear Reader, This is the final chapter of part I. Part II will be continued in this same thread. But now we are leaving Bertegad. Thanks to my readers, followers, favoritors and reviewers. I appreciate the feedback very much as it keeps me motivated to keep posting. I'll be back soon with part II. Peace, CS**

Chapter 40 Falling Leaves

" _One day, the greyness of morning upon you,  
a part of your life taken from you, just for a while.  
Silently waiting for someone who'll know why  
the price of an hour of love is so high . . .  
Oh, I do._

 _Where is the heaven that you've dreamed of?  
How many thoughts have you denied?  
Then you can say that you're in love,  
forever to be alone."_

 _Forever to Be Alone_  
Justin Hayward

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Master?"

Exuberant and bubbly even after a battle.

If there was one thing that could be said about Ahsoka, it was that she never seemed to lose her enthusiasm. Whether in agreement or disagreement, her vehemence was always in the upper tier. That passion was one of the things Anakin most admired in her.

She was turning out to be quite a good padawan. She was open to instruction and learning new things. Even boring assignments like working in the Jedi Temple library—which turned out not to be so very boring after all (a story for a different day)—while not warmly embraced, were met with the patience and wisdom that had replaced the grudging, puerile impetuosity of her earliest days as a padawan.

To be certain, she still had moments of poor judgment, hasty decision, and immaturity; but Anakin mused that Obiwan probably said the same thing about him. It was all a matter of perspective and experience. Anakin knew he himself still had quite a bit of learning and growing to do as a Jedi. When confronted with the wisdom of Yoda or the level-headedness of Luminara Unduli, he recognized his own shortcomings. But he also was keenly aware of the connection he had with the Force, the power that came so readily to him.

And although he was loathe to admit it, there was a very persistent voice in the back of his head that insisted that power was preferable to wisdom, preferable to level-headedness. The only virtue that might stand a chance of knocking power from its place of importance was mercy.

Yet, mercy seemed to be in such short supply . . .

His thoughts returned once more to Ahsoka, standing before him, waiting for him to speak. He drew in a deep breath. He was going to need all the wisdom, equanimity, and determination he could muster.

"Yes, Ahsoka." It seemed the use of her name versus her nickname would carry more authority in this case. "I'm going to have you stay here with the 40th until the recovery team arrives." He braced himself for the argument.

And it came.

"Master, I don't think it's necessary for me to stay," Ahsoka protested. "I'm sure one of the battalion commanders will be staying, so it makes no sense—"

"None of the battalion commanders are Jedi," Anakin cut her off. "After what these people have just been through, I think it's a good idea to keep a Jedi here until we can be sure that the Separatists aren't coming back."

"And you think a day or two will make a difference? Master, if I leave here after the recovery team arrives, the Separatists could show up the next day. And the recovery team won't have a Jedi with them. Whether I leave now or in a few days won't matter . . . " She could see, already, by the look in his eye, that she was not properly sizing up the situation. "It's not going to be one or two days, is it?"

"Admiral Yularen is leaving Three-Forty* here to assist the recovery team and provide some additional security until our business of Kamino is done," Anakin explained. "He thinks it's a good idea to keep them in reserve, since there's a good chance Kamino will require some . . . rebuilding. Obiwan and I both agreed it would be best if a Jedi stayed here with them."

"And I drew the lucky number," Ahsoka simpered, but she was not ready to give up. Not yet. "Master, I understand, but I don't think that's a good idea. If the Separatists manage to destroy the cloning facilities, the entire war effort may be lost. You'll need every Jedi available to help with Kamino's defense."

"There will be other Jedi there," Anakin replied. "I need you here to make sure not only that these people are protected, but that the troops we're leaving behind are protected as well. The men know and trust you, Ahsoka. I trust you."

She glanced away in consideration, but truly there was nothing to ponder. Her master had given her an order, she had protested, and he had reaffirmed the order. Yes, she'd disobeyed before—blatantly—but this time, disobedience would be like abandoning her post. That, she could not do.

"If that's what you think is best, Master," she said, throwing in a sigh to make sure he understood she was doing this under duress.

"I know you can handle it, Snips," Anakin grinned.

" _Sure, I can handle it,"_ Ahsoka told herself silently, adding with internal petulance. _"So much for spending any time with Rex."_

It was selfish and childish, and she knew it. Another thorn in her side to remind her just how young she really was to let her emotions have such reign over her thoughts. She could only wonder if things would get any easier as she got older.

Force, she hoped so.

* * *

Rex held out his arm. "Will you walk with me one last time?"

It seemed the best way to end the sad awkwardness that had befallen the two of them. Rex had said what he'd intended to say. Maree's response had been more circumspect and guarded. And now neither of them knew what to say or how to bring the subject to its conclusion.

But one thing Rex did know: he was not going to leave her on such a wavering note. He would close this chapter just as he had opened it.

With something safe and easy.

With manners.

Maree smiled and accepted.

They began walking along the path that led to the north.

"There's one place I want to see again before we leave," Rex announced.

"Lead the way," Maree replied.

For thirty minutes, they continued on, following one path then another, Maree remarking silently how well Rex had come to know all the trails in such a short period of time. They eventually picked up the path than ran along the springs and the streams that joined them one to the other. They climbed up past where Maree had first seen the young girls spying on the swimming clones.

Leading the way down the other side, Rex said with amused recollection in his voice, "Do you remember when the children followed us out here?"

"I certainly do."

Rex was glad to hear the happiness in her voice.

"You had me running all through this place," he recalled, then turning a bold eye to her. "You up for that again?"

"Well, I—" She got nothing more out before he took her hand in his and bounded off down the path.

Running along behind him, she began to feel some of the weight of the past few days lifting. There was something liberating about racing through the encroaching night, following in the steps of this man whom she loved so dearly, not knowing what turns he would take or where he would lead her. This was precisely what she had needed, something to blow away the pall, to lift her spirit.

And she could not help but marvel that it was this stoic, serious clone captain who was showing her how to rise above the melancholy, how to break free from her own worries. Yet, it felt less like they were running _from_ something than running _towards_ something. A great unknown future, where they would never be close together, but they would never be far apart.

His grip was strong, his steps firmly planted and remarkably light for a man so encumbered. There was a fluid ease to his movements that the ensemble of his armor only seemed to accentuate; and Maree was reminded once again that the way she was seeing him now—the soldier—this was the fullness of who he was. Both a leader and a follower. A man who could inspire others through his actions.

A man who had doubtless witnessed so many atrocities and tragedies that he had learned—or been conditioned—to actively overcome the insidious malaise that must be the natural byproduct of such horror.

He was showing her that ability now, and she felt her heart swell with appreciation. To think . . . a simple soldier—a clone, no less—guiding a holy woman through the maze of her own sadness.

Perhaps the Creator had truly known what he was doing when he'd sent Rex into her path.

Rex darted through the clumps of bushes and around the rocky outcroppings, and he could have sworn he heard Maree laughing behind him. He had hoped for as much.

He ducked into a familiar clump of Eylick bushes, Maree springing in behind him. He turned to face her.

"This is the place."

Maree raised an eyebrow. Even in the pale darkness, the heightened color of her cheeks was as visible as her smile.

"This? You wanted to see the place where I pushed you into the water?"

"Mm-hm." The mischievous look on his face made her take a step back. But he had no nefarious intentions. Instead, he looked out over the placid surface with a nostalgic gleam in his eye. "This is the place where I first knew." A pause as he returned his gaze to her. "Where I first knew that what I felt for you wasn't anything I'd ever experienced before." A pause. "I didn't know if it was love. But I wanted that moment to never end. And for me . . . it hasn't." He reached out a hand and drew her beside him. "It was love. It still is."

Maree regarded him steadily. "Do you know when I first fell in love with you? When you got sick at the Losla birth."

"What? Oh, no, no," Rex groaned dramatically. "Really? That was what did it?"

"Well, it had been building up so slowly that I hardly recognized it," she replied. "You were so serious and grumpy when you first got here, but even then . . . even then, I think there was something that I found attractive." A pause. "But I knew it was impossible for us to be together. You knew that, as well." She brushed the tips of her fingers gently across his brow. "I think we both managed to honor our oaths – though you did a better job than I did."

"That's your opinion," Rex smiled, then his demeanor became serious. "If . . . if I survive this war, and me and my brothers are given our freedom . . . then I want to return here and be with you. I know it won't be for long—given how fast we age, but it would make the wait for eternity a little more tolerable." He added quickly with a teasing lilt, "And I know the limitations. I told you that, the night you pushed me in there."

"Yes, I seem to recall you saying you had limitations of your own," Maree beamed. "On that, I must disagree. Any limitations you have are placed on you by others, Rex. I don't think you yourself have a single limitation."

Rex chuckled softly. "I think Cody would disagree with you on that."

"That very well may be—"

Even as she spoke, Rex's wrist communicator beeped.

"Rex, this is Cody."

Rex and Maree exchanged amused glances.

"His timing is impeccable," Maree noted.

"And lousy," Rex added. Still, he raised his arm. "Rex here."

"Just reminding you: gunship in thirty minutes."

"Roger that. I'll be there."

He sighed. "That was the fastest two hours in history."

"We still have thirty minutes," Maree pointed out, taking his hand. "Let's make it a slow walk back."

* * *

"Sister Agnesta . . . you came to see me off." Pitch bent down so he could be eye-to-eye with the tiny woman.

"I came _to say good-bye_ ," she said in a manner of correction, as if there were a great distinction between seeing off and saying good-bye – and perhaps there was.

"Thank you," Pitch grinned. "Thank you for coming down here. Thank you for teaching me how to pray." He blushed – an uncommon occurrence. "I wasn't very good at it—"

"You do not have to be good at it," the old woman advised. "Only sincere." She pat his hand lovingly. "You are a good boy. You have a good heart. Of them all, you are the only one who came to ask. You are a good boy, and I will continue to pray for you every day."

"I'll take all the prayers I can get, Sister," Pitch graciously accepted. "And I promise that I'll pray for you, as well."

"Very good, very good. Be careful. Fight with honor and respect for all the Creator has made."

"I will, Sister, I promise."

Not far from this parting, another farewell was taking place.

"I will miss hearing your stories," Anaide admitted. "I think we all will."

Echo replied in kind. "I'll miss having an audience that wants to hear them. I think, after everything that's happened here, I'll have a whole new battery of stories to tell. I can say that life in the 501st has been anything but boring."

The sister could tell that, though he was answering politely, he was preoccupied. She knew the reason why.

"I looked everywhere for Yusani," she sighed. "I think she must be very upset about your leaving, and she's hiding. But don't worry. She's done this sort of thing before. In a few hours, I'm sure she will come out and want to talk to everyone about you. Like you, she'll have plenty of people who will want to listen."

Echo nodded, then asked tepidly. "Will she . . . will she be okay?"

Anaide knew he was referring to more than just the upset the little girl might feel at his departure.

"Yes, she will," came the reply. "Her physical deformities are external. Internally, she is as healthy as a losla. I imagine, as she gets older and can make decisions for herself, that she may choose reconstructive surgery. But again, she may not." A smile. "She's a very complicated little mouse."

"Well . . . then, tell her good-bye for me, and—and how much I—how much she means to me," Echo fumbled through his words. "Maybe someday I'll be back."

Anaide nodded. "Thank you for protecting us. Let all your brothers know that we support them and are praying for them. And Echo . . . be careful."

"I will."

* * *

Cody was watching the shipside final words of parting. He, himself, had already said his good-byes to everyone except the Doma. And it had occurred to him, as he'd visited with Au-Trava, Au-Sinti, Au-Ogusta, just how much he'd come to respect and admire these men, to the point where he wished they were the ones fighting beside him and his brothers in battle, as opposed to some of the other more questionable allies of the Republic.

Still, the time had come to leave the Austeniens and the Verviens to return to carrying out their primary task of healing. Time for the commander and his brothers to return to their primary task of waging war. He had noticed, upon his return from Heembab, a change in the men who had stayed behind. It was as if they had slipped into an idyllic otherworld, which even the shock of the Copian attack had not fully dispelled. Over the past few days, he had seen them slowly returning to the rhythm of life as a clone trooper, but there were still lingering remnants of what Cody euphemistically labelled, 'the holy life.'

It was not enough to cause concern. After all, Cody himself had begun to feel the effects of the Monastica even after spending only a few days in the place. He could understand that its allure and sway might increase the more time one spent there.

There was only one man who had given him reason to take notice.

And that was Rex.

The change might be subtle, but not to Cody.

Rex was unflappable, not easily distracted, utterly focused, and brutally upfront.

The Rex Cody had seen since the battle's conclusion, while he might have returned to his banner military efficiency, was somehow not fully engaged in the moment. So, when Cody had noticed that they were thirty minutes out from report time, and Rex was nowhere in sight, he had taken it upon himself to put that gentle reminder in his friend's ear. For in any other circumstance, Rex would have been at the gunship an hour prior to showtime. He might have spent that hour preening over his armor—he was very vain in that way—checking and rechecking his pistols, chatting with the pilots, ticking off the names of his men as they reported in. But to be thirty minutes out and a no-show: maybe someone else, but not Rex.

Now, fifteen minutes had passed, and even Generals Skywalker and Kenobi were approaching from the direction of the Taber.

" _General Skywalker's beating Rex to show time. What the hell's going on?"_ Cody wondered.

As the two generals drew closer, the commander could hear General Skywalker talking into his wrist comm.

"—leaving Major Dunore in charge of the Third. He's on his way here from the Taber. I want you to link up with him before we leave."

"I'm already on my way, Master. I should be there in a couple minutes."

"Major Dunore is a tough character," Obiwan remarked. "Do you think Ahsoka will be able to get along with him?"

"That's why I want to match them up in front of us, so they can both understand the chain-of-command," Anakin replied. "Major Dunore will have operational command. Ahsoka is responsible for protection. She may not like the idea of deferring to him, but he knows what he's doing when it comes to reconstruction. And he'll have to trust her when it comes to any defensive measures that might have to be taken." A pause as he surveyed the area. "Rex isn't here yet?"

Cody was quick to answer. "I already contacted him, General. He's on his way."

Obiwan quipped lightly, "He must have a lot of good-byes to say."

Anakin kept his expression neutral. From what he had witnessed earlier, he imagined it was one good-bye. One very difficult good-bye.

* * *

They were approaching the open space where the gunship was waiting.

Rex could hear the low droning of the engines – even now, still a comforting sound, despite the circumstances.

Still deep enough into the sparse wood that they could not see the ship, Rex drew to a stop.

"This is it." He sounded subdued, oppressed now that the moment was actually upon them. He continued to stare down the path, as if dreading what lay beyond the trees.

When he received no response from Maree, it took an act of will and courage for him to face her, not knowing what he would see.

To his amazement, he beheld a placidity that not been there earlier. He might have labeled it a stiff upper lip, except that that was not at all what he was seeing. Something had happened, some decision had been reached, some resolution embraced.

After a long silence, Maree spoke. "If, at the end of all things, you still desire to be with me, then . . . know that is my desire as well. If you are willing and able to wait, I will be there when the wait is over. Whether it be in this life or the next."

Her words settled something that been running restless in his soul and gave him the courage to do what he had only contemplated, something he wasn't sure he should be doing at all. But he'd be damned if he wasn't going to try.

It would be his first, and he wanted to remember every detail of it, for the memory would have to last him a lifetime. Perhaps longer.

He bent his head down slowly, apprehensive that she might back away. After all, this was definitely not the sort of thing the head of a celibate religious order would condone.

But she did not back away, and when his lips touched hers, Rex felt as if he were melting, merging into her body through just this thin line of contact. It was a chaste kiss, a kiss of love and not passion; but when it ended, Rex did not draw back right away. He lingered, his lips brushing against hers. He felt her hand on cheek, soft and gentle. He put his hands on her waist, still maintaining the distance between them.

By the Force, now he understood why something as simple as a kiss—even one such as this—was such a potent and powerful thing. For it was certainly arousing in him the desire for even greater intimacy, which he knew was out of the question.

At length, he buried his face in the crook of her neck—not in any sensual manner, but rather in the way that a strong man, in the face of great peril and danger or its aftermath, takes solace in the comfort that can only come from the woman he loves and who loves him in return.

When he finally raised his head again, it was to see her regarding him with a tearful smile.

"We should go."

Rex composed himself. "Right."

As they came to the edge of the trees and within sight of the gunship, Maree spoke once more, her eyes trained straight ahead. "Return to me safely . . . and quickly." She hesitated and turned her head to regard him obliquely. "My gallant captain."

They drew near the gunship and the group of personnel preparing to board.

Cody came forward. "I was starting to worry you'd miss show time."

"You know better than that," Rex replied.

The commander gave a nod then turned to Maree, and Rex went to say his good-byes to the others.

"Doma, I know you've probably heard it a hundred times by now, but make it a hundred and one. Thank you for everything. Thank you for sending your people out to rescue us, for taking care of us, for saving our injured. I won't forget your hospitality. None of us will," the commander said. "We won't forget everything you and your people risked to protect us."

"It's a small risk compared to the ones you and your brothers take every day," Maree replied.

"That's our job," came the dutiful response.

"It's not a job," Maree countered with a kind inflection in her voice. "It's a calling. You may have been created to do battle, but to do it well . . . it _is_ a calling." A pause. "Your men are truly amazing, Commander. I feel my life has been enriched for knowing them."

"I know I speak for all of them when I say we feel the same way about you and your people."

Maree appreciated his thoughtfulness. She had known from the first moment she'd met him that Cody was an exceptional man in too many ways to enumerate. He was a man who could be trusted.

"I wish you were not going," she admitted. "But we will pray unceasingly for your safety." A pause. "And Commander . . . you will look after Rex, won't you?"

Cody grinned. "I always have." A laugh. "Though he doesn't need it very much and would be outraged if I even suggested it." A knowing glint came into his eye. "I see you discovered that he can be a bit on the impetuous side."

"He can, indeed," Maree replied, returning his good humor with her own. "Which is why I'm glad he has someone like you to . . . keep his feet on the ground."

"Only sometimes," Cody corrected. "When he's got his mind set on something, it's hard to hold him down." He paused and gave a crooked smile at some memory. "But that's one of the best things about him."

Maree nodded then reached out to take both his hands. "Agreed. Be safe, Commander. Be safe and may the Creator protect you all."

The last ones to approach the Doma were Generals Skywalker and Kenobi, joined at the last minute by Commander Tano, who appeared flustered and out-of-breath.

"On behalf of the Republic, thank you for all you've done for our troops," Obi-wan began. "Without your help, we would have lost a lot of very good men."

"It was our honor to help," Maree replied.

"And we will be here if you ever require our help again," Au-Mikiel answered. "Our medical facilities will always be open to your injured. I'm sure, as the war spreads, the need for medical services increases."

"We will certainly take your offer to the Jedi Council and the Senate," Obi-wan replied. "Perhaps a technology share would benefit both your world and our forces."

"It is certainly something that we can discuss," Au-Mikiel said, adding, "But there are aspects of our healing that cannot be replicated by technology. I'm sure you understand that."

"Yes, I do."

There was a moment wherein no one spoke, but then Maree, in her role as Doma, took the lead.

"This is farewell, then. But before you go, I would ask Fels Au-Mikiel to say a prayer over you."

There was no objection, and Au-Mikiel began speaking in his native tongue, a chant both mystical and lyrical, something that transported its hearers above the trappings of daily life, a prayer that rose above the drone of the engines, that seemed to catch on the breeze and spread to every corner of the Monastica.

" _It's some kind of . . . it's some use of the Force that I've never seen before,"_ Anakin said silently. He wondered if Obi-wan was coming to the same conclusion. When the prayer was finished, he looked up and saw that a giant eagle had come and perched on top of the Taber's ruined walls. The bird was translucent, and Anakin knew right away that he was looking at something supernatural. He would have to inquire about it with his men later.

"The words of that prayer go back to the earliest days of our order," Maree explained. "They have never been written down, just passed on by oral tradition."

"What does it mean?" Obi-wan asked.

Maree translated.

"When you are in doubt, be still and wait. When doubt no longer exists for you, then go forward with courage. So long as mists envelop you, be still; be still until the sunlight pours through and dispels the mists, as it surely will. Then act with courage." She smiled. "That is the wisdom of the eagle. He recognizes his own gift when he hears it spoken of." And for a moment, her gaze shifted to Double Barrell, standing in the door of the gunship; he seemed to have taken her words to heart, and the Doma wondered if perhaps he was feeling some reluctance to leave the soul that had saved him and established a bond in doing so.

"It's brilliant," Obi-wan praised. "And very fitting, I believe."

Maree nodded. "Win this war, Master Jedi. The peace of the entire galaxy may well depend on it."

The two generals boarded the ship. Directly behind them, per custom—when General Skywalker wasn't mucking things up—were their firsts-in-command. Rex and Cody had been standing beside the gunship, and now they were the last two to step up.

From beside Rex, Anakin spoke once more to his padawan. "Ahsoka, remember what I told you."

"I will, Master," she replied, but she did not sound particularly invested in her own answer.

Cody lifted his wrist comm. "Dodger, we're ready to go."

"Roger that. Lifting off."

"Soldier Echo! Soldier Echo! Wait! Come back!"

Anakin followed the sound of the voice as a little girl with a deformed face came running out from the gathered brothers and sisters, several of whom made snatches at her but with no luck. Even so, by the time she was close enough, the ship was already five meters off the ground and going up slowly in a sort of languid processional good-bye turn.

"What—wait—Echo! Wait!" That was Fives' voice.

Anakin turned to see a bit of a commotion at the other door. "What's going on?"

It was Fives who replied in an excited voice. "Echo just jumped back down there!"

Anakin looked back out his door just in time to see Echo reach the child and lift her into his arms in what had all the appearance of a fatherly embrace.

"Dodger, bring her back down," Cody ordered.

On the ground, Echo was not considering the trouble that his action might get him into. His heart was telling him what to do.

"I didn't think I was going to get to say good-bye," he said. "I looked for you, but I couldn't find you."

"I make this," came the exuberant reply as she held out a pile of twigs bound together that loosely resembled a doll. "For you."

Echo took the twigs. "For me?"

"Um-hum! This is me! You not forget," Yusani explained.

"I love it," Echo replied. "Thank you very much." He kissed her cheek. "And I won't forget you, Yusani. I promise."

"You come back?"

"I hope so." It was an honest answer.

She wrapped her skinny arms around his neck and squeezed with all her strength.

"You come back," she said in his ear. "I wait. You come back."

Rex had watched this tender moment, but now with the words almost mirroring the promises both he and the Doma had made, he directed his gaze back towards Maree as Anaide stepped forward to take Yusani from Echo.

She was looking at him as if he were the only living thing, so intent was her focus. For a moment, he actually thought, as the ship touched down once again, that she might break from where she stood and come running to him. But it was a fleeting thought, for he knew she had more self-possession than to do such a thing.

Still, her silent stare spoke volumes. She wanted to imprint every detail of how he looked right now upon her memory, for it might be a very long time until they saw each other again – if ever. She wanted to remember the feel of his lips: so tentative, so gentle.

The pain in their parting had seemed distant until now. Distant to both of them. The time for words and embraces was past. Now, only thoughts remained . . . and a final gaze.

Echo was back aboard, and the gunship rose once more into the air. It took on northerly heading and picked up speed as it began its ascent. In the darkness, its great dual landing lights carved out a path for a bit. And then it was gone from sight.

Maree felt suspended in place, unable to stop looking even though she could no longer see anything. Beside her, Au-Mikiel put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Are you alright, Doma?"

"I will be," she replied.

"I think it will take some time to get used to them not being here," Mikiel opined. "They made a very large impact in a short period of time. We will all miss them." He drew his head close to hers and added, "I understand your sadness – more than you know."

Maree looked at him in a manner that invited him to go on.

"It is a struggle when you love someone," he said. "But the Creator gives us precisely what we need at the moment we need it." A pause. "You did not break your vow."

Maree was surprised at his prescience. "How did you know?"

"Have you forgotten that the Creator has given me gifts, as well?" Mikiel asked with a smile. "The gift of discernment? I could sense your struggle daily. The captain's, as well."

Maree sighed. "I may not have broken _that_ vow, but I did break my vow to protect the souls." A pause. "But for that, Me'Ente Loge and the Creator have forgiven me." She took his hand. "Mikiel, you will be surprised when I tell you what happened, how I knew I had been forgiven. But for now, I . . . I just want to retire to my residence. I need some solitude and . . . I need to pray."

"Of course, Doma," the first servant replied with understanding. "Shall I have someone accompany you?"

Maree smiled in a desultory manner. "I will be fine alone."

She turned to begin her walk back to her residence when she saw Ahsoka was still there as well, standing nearby.

"Commander Tano," she greeted her. "I'm sorry, I've been rude. Is there anything you need?"

"No, I think I'm set," Ahsoka replied. "I, uh, I'll just be heading back to see how the engineers are doing at the assembly hall."

"Please be sure to let us know if you need anything."

"I will, Doma. Thank you."

Ahsoka watched her leave, but then instead of heading back to the engineers, she took the long way round the perimeter. She had some thinking to do.

After what she'd seen in the trees . . .

. . . she had some thinking to do.

 _ ***Three-Forty is actually 3/40 Engineers, or 3d Battalion, 40th Engineering Brigade.**_

 _ ****The prayer is actually called "Act with Courage" and it's a Ponca Indian prayer attributed to White Eagle. I find Native American spirituality very beguiling, and well . . . Saint John-Paul II prayed alongside American Indians, then who am I to argue?**_


	41. Chapter 41 Part II

_**Dear Reader, thank you to my reviewers once again. This is just a short chapter to lead into part II, which I cheekily named, "In-Between" because it covers a bit of ground in between the stage-setting Part I and the culminating Part III. No action in this one, but I think the fans of Cody and Rex's friendship will appreciate this chapter. Enjoy! CS**_

 _ **PART II: In-Between**_

Chapter 41 The Journey to Kamino

" _If the highest aim of a captain were to preserve his ship, he would keep it in port forever."_

-Saint Thomas Aquinas

The prevailing mood in the gunship was an odd one. There was a reticence that was not common to the group of men therein.

Anakin noticed it. Obi-wan noticed it.

Rex most certainly noticed it – in fact, he was a great contributor to it.

He watched without speaking as Fives, near the front of the troop bay, maneuvered purposefully into a position where Echo could not help but see him. And as Echo looked up, Fives nodded in a manner both inquiring and affirming. It was one squad mate's way of asking and confirming that his brother was alright.

Echo returned the nod with one of his own. While the parting with Yusani had clearly moved him, he was steady as always, if perhaps a bit downcast. Fives recognized this and was ready to ensure his only remaining squad mate did not dwell on sad good-byes.

Rex felt proud of them. They looked out for each other – sometimes to the abandonment of good sense, as had been witnessed on Pylotta when Fives had completely disregarded orders in order to stay with Echo. But setting aside such errors in judgment, the two had proven to be an incredible team. It amazed him just how . . . present they were to each other. When one was out-of-sorts or suffering, the other was always there to lend support, to take up the slack, to share the burden.

Having witnessed the last-second good-bye between Echo and Yusani and now Fives' unspoken understanding of the impact it was having on his brother, Rex found himself comparing that situation to his own.

He'd had to conceal his own good-bye, though not due to any constraints on his part. He could have walked out of the trees with Maree on his arm, with only some raised eyebrows to show for it and perhaps a reprimand for public display of affection. And yes, his men would probably have given him a hard time about it afterwards, but given that he wasn't free to stay behind with her, the sight of the two of them together would have been little more than a surprise, and soon forgotten as the conduct of war pushed the memory further and further into the past. General Skywalker might have had a word or two to say about it, but again . . . Rex had chosen duty, so the issue was over before it could even begin.

That's certainly how it would have appeared to Rex's companions. And he was content to let it be so, for he knew the real reason for hiding his feelings was out of consideration for Maree and her position. She might be allowed—even expected—to fall in love at some point; but she was forbidden from indulging the physical aspect of that love, and she'd done everything in her power not to give even the appearance of impropriety. Rex respected that, and because he loved her, he recognized and honored the necessity of keeping things . . . clean, for lack of a better word. For he had meant it when he'd said he did not want to be the man to come between her and her god.

" _If you are willing and able to wait, I will be there when the wait is over."_

She had spoken these words, and they had been exactly what Rex had needed to hear; and it occurred to him that over the short course of his life thus far, he had _needed_ very little. He had never lacked for self-motivation when it came to wanting to be the best at every undertaking. He had never needed affirmation from his commanding officers, although it was certainly nice to hear. He had never needed encouragement—well, maybe once, and even that was questionable. The truth was that he was usually the one encouraging others. Perhaps the only thing he had ever really needed was the artificial barrier he had constructed to conceal from his men his emotional attachment to them. Without it, he likely would have turned into a sop, indecisive and pettifogged. And so might he have been, were it not for the only other need in his life, a need well-filled but only recently.

Rex's six weeks at ARC training roughly a year ago had done much to reinforce the qualities and habits that he had developed as a cadet and as a lieutenant in his first assignment before coming to the 501st. And it would not be untrue to say that not all of those qualities had been good ones. Rex had such a strong personality, overflowing with confidence and a competitive nature, that few of his fellow clones—or his trainers or even his first commander—had dared oppose or even question him. He'd never had the tempering influence of someone who was not intimidated by him. Others, knowing that they were dealing with a rare type—a man whose every word and move was calculated to bring about success in the quickest and most definitive manner possible—could not get close to him. And they had not tried. It wasn't a matter of dislike – no, not at all. The truth was that Rex, whether consciously or unconsciously, had long been keeping his brothers at arm's length for reasons he didn't have the courage to look into. But he'd done so in a _relatively_ inoffensive manner. In fact, Rex, despite whatever shortfalls he might have displayed, had been well-liked everywhere he was known. He'd always been respected for his prowess, admired for his magnanimous spirit. He'd been warm and engaging at the same time as being a braggart and a dare-devil. Yet, he'd somehow found himself occupying the highest pedestal—not against his will, mind you—and that lofty height had seemed predestined to have him as its sole occupant. No one dared knock him off or nudge him over to share the peak.

Until ARC training.

And then, it seemed as if everyone had been trying to drag him down from his lofty status, even as they grudgingly admitted that they could not help but like the brazen blonde fireball. Rex had accepted their challenges, knowing that the greatest honor was to be the top graduate, and there was no way he was going to hand that over to someone any less deserving than himself.

What he hadn't counted on, hadn't planned on—and still reflected upon with amazement and gratitude—was a clone officer every bit his opposite and yet the perfect complement to his every weakness and foible, his every strength and virtue.

Cody had been the voice that had run him down, chewed him out, and then known precisely what to say to ward off bitterness and grudge-holding. He'd been willing to tell him the things no one else would say. He'd shown him that there were more ways to gain victory than by brute strength or even cunning. He'd effectively humiliated him, been humiliated by him, and moved on without gloating or griping. He was the sort of man who recognized that not everyone wanted to be treated the same way, and he'd taken the time to get to know Rex well enough to understand what he was dealing with and how to best handle him.

He'd been the kind of friend that suited Rex perfectly.

If there were a god, he could not have fashioned a more suitable companion.

But now, it appeared he just might have. Not a companion to rival Cody, to be sure; Rex's attraction to Maree was, needless to say, of a completely different nature. But as with the commander, Rex recognized in Maree something he needed on a level he couldn't even understand; just as he had recognized that Cody had possessed an undefinable quality that had played a large part in shaping Rex into the officer he was today.

He glanced over to see the commander standing at General Kenobi's side, helmet tucked under his arm, looking every bit the professional that he was. And Rex knew— _he knew_ —that his friend hadn't forgotten about their discussion on the way down. Leave it to Cody to know when something was bothering him; but it was also true that the commander understood the importance of privacy and discretion. He might inquire again. He might not.

Rex was not sure which he preferred. He and Cody were not like Echo and Fives. Neither of them had quite the dramatic edge; they did not immediately turn to each other when difficulties hit. But they were as connected as any two clones could be, and that was saying something since they had not come from the same batch.

A part of Rex thought it might be a good way to unburden himself if he were to tell Cody what had transpired on the planet. But the other—perhaps the greater—part told him that this was not the sort of thing men talked about. Not fighting men, at least.

Fighting men told stories about their conquests of the female populations—stories mostly fabricated, but entertaining nonetheless. They dreamed of what it might be like to sweep a woman off her feet. They fantasized about the ecstasy of an hour of love.

But through it all, they kept their feet firmly on the ground and their vision pointed straight ahead. Distractions were deadly. If the enemy didn't get you, then the Kaminoans' rehabilitation protocol would.

The ship landed in the Resolute's port bay. As the complement disembarked, Rex and Cody sidled up to their generals.

"We've got a strategy meeting at 0700 in CBR 4," Anakin announced. "You two need to be there."

"Yes, General."

"We'll be four standard days enroute to Kamino at light speed," Obi-wan stated. "Let's just hope the party doesn't start before we arrive."

"Do they have any idea when the Seppies are planning to launch their attack?" Cody asked.

"Wide-net scanning is keeping an eye out and an ear open for any indicators," Obi-wan replied. "But we can't afford to waste any time. We need to get there as soon as possible and bolster the planet's defenses. Right now, it looks like we're most likely to be the first Republic troops to arrive. We'll need to find a way to hold off the enemy until the other units get there."

"Now that we're off-planet, you can brief your troops on the mission," Anakin announced. "Tell your men in the 501st and the 212th, they're going home."

"Yes, Sir."

The two clone officers parted ways with their commanding generals.

"Sort of a bittersweet homecoming," Cody noted.

"Yeah," Rex agreed. "I guess it's no surprise the Separatists are going after Kamino. What _does_ surprise me is that it's taken them this long to do it."

"Well, we both figured it was coming after the Rishi Station attack," Cody remarked. "They probably thought the station couldn't be brought back online very quickly and they'd have an easy way to slip past unnoticed." A wicked smile curled his lips. "They don't know our engineers and commo techs."

Rex returned the grin. "We'll have a nice little surprise waiting for them . . . if we get there before they do."

They walked towards the lift that would take them to the officers' quarters.

"It looks like we'll have both Ventress and Grievous to deal with," Cody stated. "That will be a new challenge for our men."

Rex made a peculiar expression. "I don't know which one I'd rather face."

"Neither of them are easy on the eyes," Cody rejoined, to which Rex chuckled and shook his head.

"I've been one slice away from being gutted by both of them," he said. "Commander Tano saved me against Grievous. Ventress . . . she's never been known to spare the lives of prisoners. Maybe she decided I might be of more use to them alive."

"I remember," Cody said. "After you told me what had happened, I remember being surprised that she let you live. You and a handful of others. She killed everyone else in that place. Truly, Rex, we've been lucky devils more times than I can count."

"We're too ornery to die," Rex grinned.

" _You're_ too ornery to die," Cody pushed back with amusement. "I'm just lucky."

"Well, then send a little bit of that luck my way," Rex said.

Cody wondered if this comment might be an opening, but he should have known better; for in the next moment, Rex was onto a safe topic.

"It will be good to see Kamino again. You know, I've never understood why I would have such fond memories of such a . . . sterile place."

"The facilities may have been sterile, the Kaminoans may have been sterile, but we weren't," Cody answered. "No matter how uniform they tried to make us, we were all different. The bounty hunters who trained us – they were about as non-sterile as you could get, and they made things interesting. We made that place our home."

Rex smiled, a faint but genuine gleam. "It's strange to think that you and I didn't even know each other back then. We grew up probably without ever seeing each other."

"Not so strange," Cody deferred. "A place that big with that many clones."

"Yeah, but . . . I guess it just feels like . . . when I think back to Kamino, I think not back to those days. I think back to ARC training – the part of it we spent on Kamino, anyways. That's the Kamino that feels real to me, that stands out in my mind," Rex explained.

Cody was a bit surprised at the deepness of that idea.

"Well, I don't know what you were like growing up as a batcher, but I can say the reason you probably remember ARC training is because the whole program seemed to revolve around you—"

"Enhh, that's not true—"

"It is true, in the sense that you _made_ the whole thing about you," Cody persisted. "Yes, you most certainly did." A pause. "And that's probably what made us such an outstanding class."

"You're always warning me about my ego," Rex pointed out. "Don't you think what you're saying will just give me an even bigger head?"

Cody replied right away with certainty. "You're the type who needs a big head. Don't ask me to explain. I just know that there's no such thing as a . . . meek Rex." He decided to test the opening with a somewhat sarcastic, "Is there?"

Not surprisingly, Rex balked at the very idea and slammed that door shut with a resounding thud.

"Are you trying to brown me off? Meek, my ass."

Cody smiled to himself. So much for openness between brothers. But then, he'd not expected any different from Rex. "Don't steam your armor," he quipped. "I'm just trying to force you to go back to the topic we hit on earlier, the one you didn't want to speak of in front of the troops." A pause and quirky smirk. "You thought I'd forgotten?"

"When do you ever forget anything?" Rex asked rhetorically. "Eh, it was nothing important."

"You sure?"

Rex deftly avoided a direct response. "We've got other more critical issues to deal with."

" _Dodging again,"_ Cody said silently. "Well, we've got four days to get ready to deal with them. It would be good if we walked into this briefing with some ideas of our own. You never know when they're going to ask for our input."

"Right."

"Meet you for breakfast at 0600? We can bounce ideas," Cody suggested.

"I think I'd rather get some rest," Rex replied, despite the fact that he'd just come from the longest sleep he'd ever indulged. "And don't look at me like that," he preempted. "You don't need to turn into a prying busybody old woman."

Cody stepped back and laughed. "Yeah, I think maybe you do need a bit more sleep."

* * *

Rex frowned at his reflection in the mirror.

Damn, but he still looked tired.

And dull.

And listless.

While he could never claim anything other than the insipid palor of a man who spent most of his life encased in armor, he had at least always prided himself on the fact that he looked healthy, vibrant, and ready-to-go. His blond hair had always set off his skin tone, making him appear darker-skinned than he really was, giving him a glow of vitality. But now, despite weeks in the desert sun and a noticeably darker hue, he simply felt like he was looking at a tired man whom he barely recognized.

The dream was ending—had ended, to be more accurate. He had only the memories now, and they would have to be enough.

He began stripping off his armor with the same sort of loving care that a father might show to a child, placing each piece carefully on the rack specially designed for just that purpose.

It really was cleaner now than it had been at any time since its issuance. That was nice. But it was also somewhat sad. Rex felt as if the past 20 months of war and its experiences, his close calls and narrow escapes—as well as a few direct hits—had been erased from the history book that was his armor, for the truth was that while the rest of the clones had upgraded to the newer versions of the armor, Rex had only upgraded his helmet. He continued to wear the first set of armor, patched and re-patched that he had entered active duty with.

He had taken a sort of vagabond pride in the battered outer shell, and its newfound cleanliness made him feel as if he were now bereft of the marks of his travails. The outward signs of his battles were gone – even if the inner recollections were etched in his mind.

He took a long, comforting look at the armor before heading for the shower.

One of the nicest features of these current Venator-class starships was their officer accommodations. As a clone first-in-command, Rex merited a private room with a private bath. Even his lower ranked officers only had to share two to a room. And the troops had 6-bed bay quarters, which were as nice as anything they'd had on Kamino.

Rex had heard that the new Victory-class ships that were scheduled to roll out of the shipyards in the near future were not nearly as spacious or private, owing to the necessity to fit more weaponry and defensive systems onboard. So there was something to be said about the vessel on which he was currently serving: _The Resolute_ – it would be less lethal than its successor but more of a home – or at least, more comfortable – to its crew. And in a strange way, Rex preferred the present ship over the ship that was to come.

He was reminded of this as he stood in the shower with real water – _real water_ – running hot and soothing over his skin. This was so superior to the sonic showers he'd _endured_ on other ships and even on board this ship during times of shortage.

He stayed there for a long time, letting his thoughts wander—something he did not often do. His mind was usually going at the speed of light, focusing tightly on one topic at a time, but moving quickly from topic to topic, existing solely in the moment but always with a constant awareness of the past and an anticipation of the future.

That had changed during his time on Bertegad. It was not a change that had come on suddenly, but rather had slowly wended its way into his routine; and now he had to brush it off and return fully to the old routine. He needed to focus on one thing at a time again. In battle, his life—and the lives of others—depended on it.

And while he had certainly always had strong reasons for wanting to survive and win victory, he now had a new reason to add to the list.

He had someone to return to when the fighting was done.

Surely, the war would not go on forever. Surely, there would freedom for the clones to choose their own paths once victory was declared and peace won.

" _General Skywalker would understand,"_ Rex said in the silence of his thoughts. _"Even if the Senate decides not to free us, the general would help me find a way to get back to her."_ It was then—for the first time—that a troubling truth suddenly occurred to him. _"When the war is over, will I even still be with General Skywalker? Will they disband the clone army altogether? The Jedi will go back to their own lives. They won't be needed as officers anymore."_ There was so much uncertainty that his ability to anticipate the future in this instance was hopelessly clouded, but one thing stood out: he could not envision a military career that no longer involved General Skywalker. It struck him as odd, an indication that perhaps his loyalty had shifted from the Republic to his commanding officer. For a fleeting moment, he entertained the question of what he would do if General Skywalker were ever to leave the Army. _"I'd go with him."_ A moment of consideration. _"But he'd never leave the Army. I think he likes being a soldier more than he likes being a Jedi."_

He turned off the water with a bit more force than was necessary, a sort of attempt to also put a halt to the flow of random thoughts cascading through his head. This was the very sort of unfocused musing that he had to put an end to. He had started off thinking of Maree, and she was the only person he wanted to think of at that moment.

He would find a way back to her. He would survive this war.

But even if he perished . . .

 _"I will be there when the wait is over. Whether it be in this life or the next."_

. . . perhaps he could bring himself to believe in a _next life._

 **Note: "Brown me off" means "Make me mad" and comes from an old WWII letter I have from a British soldier. In fact, a lot of the dialectic oddities you see in my writing come from a large batch of communications I have from members of the 250th Company of the Royal Army Service Corps in WWII. So, if the conversations seem somewhat old-fashioned, now you know why!**


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42 Branches Mingled

" _Good people sleep peaceably in their beds at night, only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."_

George Orwell

* * *

"General, are you sure you don't want me to stay with you and pilot a fighter?"

Anakin flashed a grin askance at his captain. "Rex, you're the best at a lot of things, but flying a starfighter isn't one of them."

"With all due respect, Sir, I can fly well enough to protect your six," Rex replied.

"Broadside can do that," Anakin pointed out. "Rex, I'd rather have you planet-side in case any of the Separatists get through our blockade." He put a young, capable hand on Rex's shoulder. "You're a ground-pounder, and that's where you need to be. The entire 501st will be down there. They're going to need your leadership." He smirked. "Besides, Obi-wan would skin me alive if I held you back with me."

Rex had made his suggestion, but pleading or batting the issue back and forth was not something a battalion first-in-command did. He nodded smartly. "Very well, General."

"Good. Now, let's go get some grub. I'm starving. That meeting went on forever."

It was not uncommon for Anakin to invite his captain to join him for a meal. Anakin liked to visit the Resolute's mess hall on a regular basis. He liked to make his presence known among the men who served under him, and one of the best ways to get to know them was to break bread together.

Now three days into their voyage to Kamino, at least a dozen planning briefings deep, things were starting to coalesce into a final plan. Not that any plan was ever truly final; the enemy always had ways of mucking things up and forcing even the best-laid plans to be revised and even sometimes cast aside in their entirety.

This last meeting had determined that Jedi Generals Kenobi, Baddurt, and Surdi would join Jedi General Shaak-Ti on the surface of Kamino and head up the ground forces. General Skywalker would remain in space with the majority of the 212th's aerospace combat arm, augmented by destroyers and fighters from the 9th and 12th Sector Armies rapid reaction teams. All told, there would be almost 100,000 additional personnel defending Kamino both on the surface, in the sky, and in the space around the planet.

It rankled Rex only a bit that his general would be part of the space-borne defenses while he and the rest of the 501st would be down on the surface. But the idea was that if the Republic could hold the enemy in space and prevent the big guns from getting within range of the planet, the ground forces would not have to engage at all. And General Skywalker was known as one of the best pilots in the GAR, if not the best. It only made sense to have him lead the space battle.

As the general and his captain headed for the mess hall, Rex felt it necessary to correct a misconception. "Just for the record, General, I'm pretty damned good at airborne operations," he put forth with careful impertinence.

"Flying, Rex, flying," Anakin chirped. "You're an average pilot."

"Hm, I dare anyone to try and snag me when I'm wearing a jetpack—"

Anakin laughed heartily. Force! how he loved his captain and his attempt to twist the very plain meaning of _flying_ in this case into something that would still allow him to claim he excelled at it.

"I know all about you and the jetpack story," he said pointedly. "I've heard it from more than one person. And I don't doubt one word of it, but I'm not talking about being the rocketeer." He chuckled and shook his head. "I don't know how you didn't get kicked out of ARC school."

Rex smiled in smug satisfaction. "Because I'm that good."

"That's true," Anakin replied earnestly, adding with a bit of aim. "But when it comes to piloting a starfighter – or _any_ ship, for that matter . . . Rex, let someone else be the best."

"I'll give it some thought, General," Rex replied. The truth was he knew full well that he was—just as General Skywalker had said—an average pilot. He could hold his own, but he wasn't going to win any _ace_ contests for shoot-downs, nor was he going to be renowned for his ability to maneuver any kind of flying machine with the deftness of an Oddball, Broadside, Hawk, or Three-Point. Or even Cody, for that matter – for it was undeniable that the commander was a tremendous pilot, but one who had chosen very early on to focus his attention on the ground assault part of the 212th. He flew when he needed to, but he preferred to lead on the ground.

They entered the mess hall.

The place was packed. It was dinner time, and the first wave was coming through.

Right away, Rex saw a cluster of his men around one of the tables closest to the doors leading into where the cafeteria line ran. His attention had gone to them because of the blue hair on top of one excitedly bouncing head. Well, maybe not bouncing – it was more like the darting movements of a bird. There followed loud, boisterous laughter.

Hardcase, Pitch, Jesse, March, Gernot, Denal, and Sempe. Of the group, Denal was the only one who'd not been part of the crash-landed team.

On board the warship, protocol did not call for the room to be called to attention in every location. The mess hall was one of those locations. A place meant for relaxation and dining would be neither if every time a high-ranking officer came in, the whole place had to jump to its feet.

And so, as General Skywalker passed by the tables, he was greeted cordially but without fanfare.

"—so this blockhead goes diving into the river after the two of them, and me and Pitch were running around like sightless gambats! I'm yelling, 'they're gonna drown and we're gonna fail—'" This was from Hardcase, who was laughing so hard, he could barely get the words out.

Top cut him off. "Someone had to do something, and I knew _I_ wasn't going to drown," he said with bravado. "Hey, we had to keep our reputation as the best, and Force knows ole Jess' here could barely even keep his own head above water. I don't know what made you think you could take that river after getting the crap beat outta ya."

Jesse grinned. "I think they reconsidered the off-world portion of the training program after that."

"Yeah, they just left that to the ARC school—"

"And a good thing they did," Rex interjected.

"Captain! General Skywalker!" The men stood up in a show of respect, but the general quickly waved them back to their seats, where they scooted down on the benches to make room for the newcomers.

Rex went on. "After seeing Saber Squad's . . . _performance_ on the survival course, even I would have wondered if it was wise to allow cadets to train on actual terrain."

"We all made it, Captain," Top pointed out with a cheerful grin.

"Barely," Rex replied. A pause. "Kix still in med-bay?"

"No, he's back in quarters but still on convalescence for two weeks," Jesse answered. "Doc says he won't need to send him to a rear med station. He's almost fully recovered."

"Thanks to the Monastica and their methods," Pitch added.

"Sixer's getting released today to quarters for convalescence as well," Jesse stated.

"Good to hear it," Rex said.

"You boys looking forward to seeing your old haunting grounds?" Anakin asked easily. He was well-liked by the men and knew it. He could afford to be a bit casual, knowing they would always defer to him with the respect his position deserved.

"I'm more looking forward to kicking the Separatist ass that dares attack my home planet," Hardcase replied.

"Spoken like a true soldier," Anakin grinned.

"I just want to see if Dunnam'Kah is still there," Top put forth.

"Dunnam'Kah?" Anakin queried.

"One of the bounty hunters who was responsible for training our batch. He was a good guy, always on our side."

Rex nodded. "I remember meeting him. He was a good man."

"You know, General, with you leading the squadrons up here, we probably won't see any action down there," Denal noted.

"That's the way we want it," Anakin rejoined. "But if both Grievous and Ventress are heading up this attack, there's a good chance we might see action in space _and_ planet-side. Tipoca City is the only target they're aiming for, and they won't give up easily."

"We'll be ready for 'em , Sir," Pitch said with determination.

"We've got a lot of brothers who need protecting," Gernot added. "We all know the Separatists don't have any qualms about killing clones – even clones who are still just boys or embryos."

Even Jesse had a moment of esprit. "They picked the wrong place to attack. Kamino is as close to a home as any of us have got. Every clone would fight to the death to protect it . . . and to protect our brothers who are still there."

Anakin nodded, then with serious intent, he spoke. "And that kind of attitude . . . is why we're going to win this war."

* * *

The following day on Kamino.

"We'll put your Alpha through Kilo companies on the north 1 and 2 landing platforms," Cody pronounced as he and Rex surveyed the areas assigned to the 501st and 212th. General Kenobi had left the tactical details of troop deployment to the clone commanders, as he had strategic matters to discuss with his fellow Jedi. "My Alpha through Kilo will form the fall-back line. On South 1 and 2, we'll put Lima through Zulu companies. Mine will be front-line and yours will be fall-back."

"Sounds good," Rex nodded, taking note of the most defensible positions. "If they break through the blockade, they may come in with hollow-hull missiles . . . "

"Full of battle droids," Cody finished the thought. "In which case, we'll have to take them out as they leave the missile casing. Once they're loose, it will be harder to bring them down. We need overwhelming firepower."

"We'll have it," Rex said without a hint of doubt. "We'll have nearly 1,800 men covering four platforms. We need to make sure enough men are equipped with rocket and grenade launchers, try to take out the missiles as soon as they land."

Cody was thoughtful. "And if it's not missiles?"

"We can take out landing craft the same way," Rex replied.

But Cody still seemed troubled. "There's not a whole lot of real estate to land on here, if you know what I mean. And what little there is will be heavily guarded. The Seppies may not know we've discovered their plan to attack here, but they'll have contingencies to cover just that possibility. If they can't land on the structures, they'll find some other way."

"Land in the water?"

"A lot of SBDs are equipped with jets now," Cody remarked. "They could land in the sea and still get up here pretty easily."

"We need to have 360 visibility and someone to coordinate defenses if attacks come from multiple directions." Rex paused. "I'll put Top and Jesse on north 1 and 2. Sixer is still down . . . Haven and Pincot will take south 1 and 2."

"Rave and Potter on north 1 and 2. Shockwave and Flip on south 1 and 2," Cody added.

"I want to get a better look at those comm clusters, see if they offer a good shot."

"I'll go with you."

But they had gone only a few steps back inside the north 1 hangar bay when they heard a voice call out to them.

"2224! 7567!"

Both men turned towards the sound of the voice, and up on a raised walkway along the inner wall of the hangar, they saw a man they hadn't seen in . . . well, since ARC training.

Cody smiled behind his visor. "2025!"

The man flung himself over the rail, ricocheted off the ventilation ducts, and landed with the lightness of a Swanape dancer only a few meters in front of them.

After more than a year, it only seemed fitting that the men should all meet face-to-face. The helmets came off.

Cody noted the rank on the man's helmet as he removed it. " _Commander_ Colt now, is it? Has a nice ring to it."

"Cody, Rex, good to see you," the commander replied. "I wish it were under better circumstances."

"We weren't expecting to see you here," Rex stated. "I thought you'd be off-world, training."

"We're back looking for a few good men," Colt grinned. There was warmth and conviction even in his smile. He was a strikingly handsome man with a military demeanor that befit his position as an ARC instructor and commander of the Rancor training battalion very well.

The structure of the ranks of the Advanced Recon Commando units was a somewhat convoluted one, and the degree of autonomy with which many ARCs operated when on assignment or detachment to the regular or even the elite units had caused a bit of consternation on more than a few occasions.

The ARC program had begun as an experimental venture to train a handful of clones in the conduct of specialized areas of warfare: counter-terrorism, direct action, special reconnaissance, interplanetary internal defense, and unconventional warfare. For this, they would need to develop a higher level of independence and creativity in their thinking, withstand intense physical training and conditioning, and prove that it was possible for clones to rise to the level where they could pull off such dangerous missions with as high a degree of success as their non-clone counterparts.

The first clones selected had proven more than equal to the task and had then formed the nucleus of an expanded training program that had immediately begun to draw the top-performing cadets from each of Kamino's _graduating_ _classes_ – a sort of euphemistic way of saying 'clones whose training was nearing completion'. And while this method had proven successful, it had soon become clear that the best candidates for ARC trooper were to be found out in the field units with soldiers who had proven themselves in combat and had the experience and leadership to bring with them into the training environment. It had also become evident that a longer training course was needed. Originally, ARC training had been only three weeks and fully confined to the facilities on Kamino. But within a matter of a few months, it had expanded to six weeks, four of which were spent on the designated training planet of Mayotta, which, with its uninhabited multitude of terrains and climates, formed the perfect locale for carrying out dangerous training missions.

The cadre had begun to expand, complete with its own supporting staff, until it numbered well over 200. It took a lot of work to keep the ARC program organized and functional. As the program began to draw more recruits from the field units, six training battalions of 80 recruits each were formed. Of necessity and function, they were much smaller than combat battalions; yet they could be called up on a moment's notice to enter battle if needed.

Fully half of those who entered ARC training washed out without completing it. It was a rigorous and often dangerous regimen. One or two deaths per training cycle were not uncommon. As a trooper, you did not accept the recommendation to attend ARC training unless you were ready to take your chances. But the rewards upon successful completion were as permanent as they were intangible: the courage and strength, the quick-thinking and split-second decision-making skills, the camaraderie and sense of unity . . . these were things that stayed with ARC troopers from graduation day forward.

The vast majority of graduates either returned to their unit or moved on to a position of greater authority in another unit. Some stayed on as part of the cadre, and then still others—though few in number—were assigned to a special ARC unit, simply known as the AG—the purpose of which was to augment other units on special assignment or to carry out, in small teams, highly sensitive and covert missions.

Both Rex and Cody had been in the first class to go through the expanded on- and off-Kamino training regimen. Looking back on it now, Cody decided that it had hardly seemed fair to visit a new training locale _and_ Rex upon the cadre in the same go, but fairness had never been what ARC training was all about. It was about toughness; and even in the face of gross abuse, the precarious balance between developing that toughness and calling a halt to unnecessary violence had been barely maintained . . .

Colt's voice refocused Cody's attention. "The next training cycle for Rancor starts in a 21 standard days. We got about 45 nominees from field units. That leaves 35 to pull from the graduating cadets," Colt went on. "Of course, now it looks like things will have to be delayed. I'm here with Meers and Tango. They've placed us in command of the Tipoca garrison forces."

He had a smooth way of understating the threat, which both Rex and Cody imagined was a result of having had to deal with thousands of new and anxious recruits into the ARC program over the past year. He certainly hadn't been that way when they'd all gone through ARC training together. He'd always been gung-ho, serious when necessary, and fiercely devoted to whatever team he found himself a part of. It had come as no surprise to anyone when the cadre of ARC instructors had asked him to stay on as one of them.

And now, seeing him again, in a vicarious way, both Rex and Cody felt a sense of pride and accomplishment on their friend's behalf.

"Finding any talent?" Cody asked.

"Plenty," Colt replied. He looked at Rex. "I had your man in this last class."

"Flat Top," Rex nodded. "We were all surprised he made it through without blowing everyone up."

Colt gave a slight laugh. "That is one crazy officer. And . . . a pretty amazing leader. You must be doing something to train them right, Rex."

"I just try to set the example," Rex replied, pleased and somewhat smug at Colt's assessment.

Cody grinned sideways. "What was it you wanted me to remind you of? Your ego?"

Now Colt's chuckle turned into a full-on jibing laugh. "I see nothing's changed."

Rex was game and accepted the pokes good-naturedly. "Except that I'm even better now than I was then."

"I seem to recall at the end, your perfect self needed a little intervention," Colt pointed out, to which Cody crossed his arms in agreement.

"For which I am eternally grateful," Rex said with a stab at humbleness.

Cody shook his head. "You're right, Colt. Nothing's changed."

 _ **A couple notes: the description of ARC training I lifted straight from the Army Special Forces page (and experience from a friend). I have to say that I always found the Star Wars ARC trooper thing rather confusing. Were they their own units? Was it just a special designation a trooper earned after completing training? Did they stay with their unit or just get tasked out? There seemed to be no continuity, and since I don't read the books, I hope you will forgive me for just sort of creating my own idea of what ARC trooper structure looks like.**_

 _ **The next chapter begins a long, long, LONG flashback to Rex and Cody's ARC training days.**_


	43. Chapter 43

_**Dear Reader, So now begins a very long arc dedicated to Cody and Rex meeting in ARC school. I do not use any previously written materials as the basis for my vision of ARC training, so please don't be surprised if things don't mesh with stuff you've read from published writers. I had planned to put this into the story much later on, but I decided this would be a better spot. My only other request is that when you're reading, you keep in mind that the personalities and traits our clone favorites developed as the series went on may not be reflected in what you see during the six weeks of ARC training. In fact, ARC training does a lot to shape these clones into the officers they become. Enjoy! CS**_

Chapter 43 The Beginning: Nothing Alike

" _The splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the lily  
do not rob the little violet of its scent nor the daisy of its simple charm.  
If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness."_

 _Little Flower  
_ Saint Terese of Lisieux

* * *

"Look around, Fives. Feels like yesterday we were here."

Once again, Echo's enthusiasm was winning the day. Who else could reminisce about the _good old days_ when a dire battle was looming on the horizon? Who else could make Fives grin and even laugh by recalling the dysfunction that had plagued most of Domino's Squad's history.

A gaggle of cadets came towards them down the hall, and it struck both of them at the same time how times had changed. These cadets had different hair styles – one even had the same bleach-blond buzz cut sported by their own captain. That never would have happened back in their days as cadets. Or, perhaps it was more accurate to say it _did_ happen, but back then it was a rarity, an aberration; and only certain cadets would have been able to get away with it.

"Heading to target practice," Fives observed with a glint of fond recollection in his voice. "You remember that?"

"Do I ever." Echo spoke in a whimsical tone.

The cadets went past, and beyond them . . . a familiar face, a stooped body, and a warm heart was approaching.

Ninety-Nine, the experiment gone wrong.

And the main reason Domino Squad had at last passed their final test.

Whatever Ninety-Nine might have been lacking in physical aptitude, he more than made up for with his wisdom and skills of observation. He had seen in the buffoonish Domino Squad what no one else had seen: that their common cause had somehow gotten lost in the individuality that had developed among them. It had been a peculiar situation, for clones—by definition—were genetically identical, and the conditioning and training on Kamino had developed the clones, in a most basic sense, into near replicas of each other in everything from appearance to personal tastes to attitude and demeanor. Yet, somehow, a degree of individual deviation had crept in around the edges, almost from the very start. Some clones—like Echo—like developed an intense devotion to rules and regulations. Others had developed a greater sense of humor or cynicism – Cutup and Fives, respectively. Some courted confrontation and discord; others – Droidbait—did everything in their power to keep the peace. And then there had been Hevy, the sort of me-first, gung-ho piston who had the tendency to scatter his other four squad-mates to the wind.

But then, just at the verge of complete and final failure, Domino Squad had pulled together. Each of them had discovered something in their individuality that, while it should have done them good, had actually been doing them harm and sundering their chances as a team.

Echo and Fives – the rule-bound and the cynic – had even taken the step of going to Jedi General Shaak-Ti to ask to be reassigned to another squad. Echo had known that it was within the rules to ask for such a transfer. Fives had taken the cynical view that there was nothing to be done for Domino Squad, and that, were it not for their abysmal ineptitude holding him back, he would have been inducted into officer training long ago. Their request for reassignment had been denied, sealed in place with the final nail in the coffin, "You are where you need to be."

None of them knew exactly what had happened to change Cutup, what had made him suddenly decide to take things seriously. It was as if he had turned into a new man overnight. To be sure, the humor was still there; but it was a regulated humor and no longer the sort of flippant, irresponsible carelessness that had marked his wit previously.

Droidbait – there was nothing unkind or unflattering any of them could have said about him, except that, in training scenarios, he seemed to have had a knack for getting himself into situations that always resulted in his _"death"_ or _"injury"_ on the battlefield. He'd always been the one wanting to clear the path for his brothers, draw fire and allow them to move ahead towards the objective. Fives used to joke—cynically, of course—that Droidbait had a sort of perverse martyrdom wish – the desire to die so that his squad could succeed. Unfortunately, his sacrifices on the training platforms rarely resulted in his squad's success.

And then there'd been Hevy. What had transpired to turn him from an overbearing, self-centered bastard into the one who had, for all intents and purposes, led his squad to victory on that final day, no matter how much he might have tried to deny it?

Echo and Fives had long believed that Ninety-Nine must have had something to do with it. The wrinkled, aged maintenance clone had always used the name, Hevy, when referring to CT-782. And then, the day of the final test, 782 had not only adopted that name, but had come to the table with a certain calm acumen that had not been on display before.

Whatever had wrought the change, Hevy had never spoken of it; and his brothers had never asked.

But seeing Ninety-Nine now, Echo and Fives could not help but immediately recall to mind memories of Hevy and the wonderful, turbulent days of their growing up as members of Domino Squad.

A pile of rifles were spilling from the maintenance clone's arms.

In an oblique way, the tumbling weapons put Echo in mind of how things had fallen apart on the Rishi moon, how, out of the five members of Domino Squad, three had perished there, fallen from the safe embrace of their squad mates, gone before they could see that the victory had been won.

Was the same thing about to happen here? How many other brothers would lose their friends? Would both he and Fives still be alive at the end of this?

"Hey! Ninety-Nine!" he called out.

"Echo, Fives," Ninety-Nine greeted them.

"You actually remember us," Fives noted with surprise.

"I remember all my brothers," came the sincere response. "Is Hevy here? Where's he?"

It was Fives who began the halting reply. "There was an incident on the Rishi Moon outpost."

Echo picked up. "He saved our lives, but he . . . gave up his own."

"Oh, I—I see . . . " Ninety-Nine reached into his pocket and withdrew a shining medal.

"Hevy gave you his medal?" Fives asked.

The maintenance clone did not answer. Perhaps he had not really expected to see Hevy again. Death in battle would have been the only fitting end for such a clone . . .

. . . but why did it have to be so soon? Less than eight months . . .

"So, why have you returned to Kamino?"

"The generals received word of an impending attack here," Fives replied.

To the degree he could, Ninety-Nine straightened. "What can I do to help?"

But it was not Echo or Fives who answered; rather, it was Commander Cody.

"You can make sure the pressure seals on the front five are fully charged." The commander was referring to the ring of five passageways that ran in concentric circles around the outer perimeter of the gestational towers. "When the time comes, we want to be sure they can be closed off at a moment's notice."

"I checked them this morning on orders from General Shaak-Ti," Ninety-Nine replied. It only stood to reason: he was a maintenance clone. "But I'll do it again, Commander."

"Good man." A pause. "And it's good to see you again, Ninety-Nine."

Rex added with a one-sided grin, "I see you're still holding down the fort."

"Just trying to do my part," Ninety-Nine said with the pride that all clones possessed, no matter what role they played.

"You've always done your part . . . and more," Rex nodded.

With those words of praise still chiming in his ears, Ninety-Nine went off to double-check the pressure seals.

Rex turned to Fives and Echo. "I received a special request from Commander Meers. He's looking for some snipers. I already sent him DB, Sights, and Poker. You two are pretty good shots. You belong to him for the duration of this battle. He's in Hangar C off North 1. Go report in."

The two men snapped to attention. "Yes, Sir!" they acknowledged in unison.

* * *

The captain and commander continued on their way to the south landing platforms, taking the quickest route, which entailed passing through the barracks towers, the lower two levels of which were reserved for the two weeks of on-Kamino ARC training.

"Well, this brings back memories, doesn't it?" Cody noted as they walked hastily past the rows of two-man rooms. Unlike the cadet barracks, which consisted of sleeping tubes piled five-high with lockers down below, these were actual rooms with actual beds, a desk against the wall in between, two chairs and two foot lockers on the walls opposite the foot of each bed.

Rex replied in quiet voice. "It does."

They came to the end of the line of rooms, stopping for a moment at the last room on the right. As no class was in session, the entire place, including this room, was empty.

Cody stepped inside without hesitation. Rex lingered on the threshold.

"It even still smells the same," Cody remarked.

Rex looked at the small confines. After a few seconds, he replied, "But it's not the same. It isn't ours anymore."

Neither of them would begrudge the other a moment of recollection spent in this place, even as they prepared the defenses for the upcoming battle.

A few seconds dedicated to remembering how their bond had come about would be something they could take forward into the impending conflict.

And it would make them stronger.

It always had.

* * *

One year earlier.

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

"At ease." Without his helmet, the 729th Tactical Assault Battalions commander looked like one of any of the other hundreds of thousands of clones. A rugged, handsome face with a strong, square jaw, piercing amber eyes that often looked serious even in laughter, and a flat-top of dark hair that seemed the perfect finishing touch for such a classic and military visage.

Of course, what the commander saw looking back at him was identical in every respect.

Every respect but one: CT-7567's hair, instead of the naturally warm hues of near-black, was a shocking bleach-blond and at least two inches too long. The commander recognized it, as he did with so many of his troops, as a statement of individuality. Barely four months into the war, and the clones had already begun to show the independence of their progenitor—so to speak—and had taken it upon themselves to find ways of distinguishing each from the other.

The lieutenant's sun-bleached topping might have been the most blatant—and in the commander's mind, the most obscene—demonstration of uniqueness; but in some strange way, it was very fitting for a clone who already stood out from the crowd in so many other ways. CT-7567 had never blended in, never been the quiet observer, the taciturn follower. He'd always been out front of his platoon, encouraging his fellow troops, leading them even more effectively than many of the more experienced clones. He'd even started referring to his fellow clones as _brothers_ , a moniker which was spreading quickly and which the commander himself found quite suitable and even touching.

Now, as the commander stood facing this outstanding young soldier—though physiologically, the lieutenant was only four years younger than the commander – he found himself lamenting what he was about to say.

"You've heard of ARC troopers."

"I have, Sir," came the crisp reply.

"Well, they're opening up that training to qualifying troops serving in the field," the commander went on. "The first class starts in one week. I recommended you, and you were accepted."

Pleasure beamed from lieutenant's eyes. "Sir, I'm honored."

"You should be," the commander replied. "It's a damned hard program to get into." A pause. "But, uh, strangely enough, you seem to already have a reputation, so your acceptance was probably a bit easier than it was for others. Still, that means they're going to have great expectations of you."

"I won't disappoint them," 7567 replied with the same sort of surety that made him a hero to his fellow clones. "And I won't let you down, Sir."

The commander grinned, but it was a wan, false thing; for he knew only too well that once the higher-ups got a good look at what 7567 was capable of, once he had graduated from ARC training no doubt at the top of his class, there would be no chance of him coming back to this unit. The 729th might have had more than its fair share of combat rotations, but it had not the grandeur and visibility of some of the other GAR combat units.

It was already a given that, barring a complete and utter failure, CT-7567 would emerge from ARC training and be reassigned to another, more prominent unit.

But the commander had known that when he'd recommended him for the course. It was a calculated decision he'd made for the good of the war effort, and it was useless to lament his decision now. The 729th would be alright. They had plenty of good officers, and their Jedi general was decent enough. But there were units that needed the kind of clone leadership that 7567 would bring with him. And such an outstanding officer deserved the chance to show that leadership.

"I know you won't," the commander acknowledged. "We'll get you to the rear tomorrow, and from there, Sector Headquarters will take over the transportation."

"Understood," the lieutenant nodded. "Sir, are you sure—are you sure you want me to go? I don't want to leave the unit in a bind."

The commander smiled at the lieutenant's arrogance, the idea that his presence was indispensable, as if every clone were not fully and immediately replaceable. Such cock-surety was only made acceptable by the fact that 7567 hadn't been speaking _only_ from bravado, though there was a good dose of that in the mix; no, he truly felt concern for the safety of his fellow troops, and the idea of leaving them in the midst of battle was a genuine affront to his moral code.

"We'll manage, lieutenant," came the reply. "Go on, you'd better go say your good-byes. There'll be a lot of guys sorry to see you go."

"I'll be back in a month. It's a month, right, Sir?" 7567 said.

It amazed the commander that his lieutenant hadn't even the slightest idea of his being reassigned after the completion of the school.

And it made him feel somewhat sorry for him. "Six weeks," he corrected. "Go on." Then, as 7567 turned to leave, he added, "And I suggest you do something about that hair before you go."

* * *

The rear staging area for Battle Group Trident, of which the 729th was a part, was on the planet O-12. There was nothing remarkable about the planet, its inhabitants, and certainly not the thrown-together base the Republic had set up there in order to keep the flow of supplies and munitions moving to at least fourteen forwarding operating locations.

CT-7567's shuttle from the FEBA* had arrived late in the evening, and the lieutenant had spent one noisy, almost sleepless night in the transient barracks, which happened to be right next to the generator repair facility, thus accounting for the racket all through the night. He was scheduled to meet his shuttle at 0500; so when 0300 rolled around and he found himself wide awake, he decided to head for the landing pad early.

Even at such an hour, the entire staging area was alive with activity, swarming with people, machinery, and droids. The flight line and its adjacent landing and loading zones were awash in nonstop comings and goings.

CT-7567 approached shuttle dispatch –a collection of consoles jammed into one corner of a massive warehouse bordering the northeastern end of the flight line.

The clone behind the nearest console glanced up. "Can I help you, Sir?"

"Do you have a pad number for the shuttle going to Kamino yet?"

After a few seconds, the clone replied, "Pad D-12. It's not scheduled to depart for another two hours, Sir."

"That's fine. I couldn't sleep anyway, so I'll just wait around," CT-7567 replied.

"Yes, Sir." Then, the clone offered helpfully, "D-12 is straight down this row here, but they're offloading a merchant supply ship, and I think the walkway is probably pretty cluttered. You'd make better time going around the E loop and coming in from that side. That's right over there."

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

"Going to ARC training, Sir?"

The lieutenant gave a one-sided grin. "How did you know that?"

"I could just tell. Looking forward to it, Lieutenant?"

"You know I am." 7567 made no attempt to disguise his pride.

"Best of luck to you, then."

"I'll take all the luck I can get," 7567 replied, then he slapped the top of the console as a parting gesture. "Keep 'em flying. Every job is critical to the war effort."

The clone nodded. "I appreciate that, Sir."

The lieutenant made his way to E loop, and as he began his way around, he could see what the dispatcher had been talking about – a massive cargo ship was docked over at least six of D-loop's landing pads, and its cargo was everywhere. As it turned out, the top of E-loop was not far from D-12, and the lieutenant was able to pass over the tarmac without any difficulty to the small shelter that served as a waiting area for D-12.

And here, he found one other man – a clone – sitting on a worn and discolored bank of chairs. The man glanced up at the lieutenant's entrance, but looked down just as quickly.

CT-7567 sat down a few seats away, but he could not bear the silence for long.

"You going to Kamino?" he asked.

The companion barely looked up. "Yeah."

7567 was not discouraged. "Going to ARC training?"

"It would appear so," came the cool and somewhat annoyed reply.

"Well, you don't sound very excited about it," the lieutenant pointed out, his own enthusiasm bubbling over with every word.

"It's just another training course," the other clone answered listlessly.

"It's the pinnacle of clone training," 7567 stated. "There is no higher achievement. It's a great honor to be selected to attend."

"I'm sure that's true."

CT-7567 was perplexed by his companion's peculiar behavior; but such disinterestedness presented a challenge, and 7567 loved a challenge.

"What unit are you from?"

The clone didn't answer right away. He seemed puzzled, almost bothered by the question. At length, he replied, "Fourth Brigade Combat Team."

"Ah, out on Slojin," 7567 noted.

"Yeah."

"I heard it was pretty nasty out there."

The clone shrugged. "I guess."

The lieutenant was wondering how someone this dull and indifferent could have ever been nominated, much less selected, to attend ARC training.

"What's your number?" he asked.

"5052," came the reply.

"I'm 7567."

5052 gave a curt nod and returned his attention to the floor.

"I'm from the 729th TCB, out with the Trident Battle Group," 7567 introduced himself.

For the first time, the other clone showed some little bit of life. "I take it 729th has pretty lax grooming standards."

The lieutenant grinned. "Why do you say that?"

"Blond hair? That would never have flown in the 4th BCT."

7567 ran his hand over his head, now barely more than a blond stubble. "Really? I just shaved it all off. You should have seen it before. My CO thought I looked like a girl."

"You should have shaved it all off and let it grow back in its natural color," 5052 opined. "That looks . . . makes you stand out."

"That's the point," 7567 grinned. "I like to stand out."

"Yeah, you seem like the type."

If 5052 were trying to get under the lieutenant's skin, it wasn't working. In fact, it was having just the opposite effect: it was getting 7567's blood pumping. To the lieutenant, any challenge was worth taking up; and sometimes, where there were no challenges, it was fun to create one.

"The type to . . . be the winner at everything?" 7567 put forth.

"The type to get on someone's nerves," 5052 replied.

"I think you must have only one nerve left," the lieutenant pricked gently.

"And you've found it."

CT-7567 swung sideways and kicked his feet up on the bank of chairs. "You know, I think we're going to get along great."

CT-5052 sighed loudly and shook his head. "I think it's going to be a long six weeks."

* * *

" _I fully expect you to come back as honor graduate."_

" _I appreciate that, but don't hold your breath, General. There's going to be a lot of stiff competition. Besides, it's not a contest. It's meant to develop us into even better soldiers."_

" _True, but somebody has to finish on top, and I have confidence that will be you, Cody."_

CT-2224 liked to replay his parting words with his general again and again within the silence of his mind. One of the things he thrived on and that motivated him was the knowledge that his Jedi had such faith in him. But then again, General Kenobi had always held Cody in the highest esteem.

Since the earliest days of their superior-subordinate relationship, the general had treated him as he would have any non-clone officer: as a valuable member of the team, a man who could inspire and lead his fellow troopers to fight against the most uneven odds, and often emerge with the victory.

He'd taken to calling him Cody – the name being the natural fallout of an incident that had occurred within their first two weeks together. And 2224 had not only liked the sound of it, but he liked the way it made him feel.

He could not imagine serving under a better Jedi or general than Obi-wan Kenobi – especially when he considered the Jedi general's former padawan and now fellow general: Anakin Skywalker. Now, there was a tough one. Brilliant, fearless, completely unorthodox, loose with authority, and revered by his men in an almost god-like manner, Skywalker was considered one of the best generals in the Army, though how the Jedi Council viewed him was less well known. Even so, Cody enjoyed serving alongside him but thanked his lucky stars daily that he was not Skywalker's first-in-command. He needed a bit more order than Skywalker generally exhibited.

Skywalker's current first-in-command, clone captain CT-676, but who also had a nickname—Stamp—was perfect for the general's command style, for he was every bit as undisciplined as Skywalker. They had been together since the war's start four months ago. General Skywalker had said more times than Cody could count, how perfect a match they were and how he would never be able to replace Stamp, were something ever to happen to him.

But at the rate that clones dropped on the battlefield, Cody silently pitied the general, knowing that it would only be a matter of time.

All clones were replaceable.

They were created to be that way.

Now, as he walked along behind the mouse droid that was leading him to his room for the next two weeks, his temporary home here on Kamino, he wondered once again why Stamp had not accepted the recommendation to attend ARC training. Surely, General Skywalker would not have put him forth as a candidate unless he felt it was deserved and would be of some use.

But Stamp had politely refused the general's suggestion and stayed behind.

Cody felt a bit disappointed at that, for he and Stamp had become quite good friends. Stamp would have made the next six weeks of training more bearable—perhaps even enjoyable.

The mouse droid stopped outside the last room on the right at the end of long line of two-man quarters. It beeped its message then set off back down the hallway to fetch and show another trainee where he would be living for the first two weeks of the six-week program.

Cody waved his hand over the recognition sensor.

The door slid sideways.

The lieutenant stepped inside and stopped.

The place looked like a cyclone had hit it.

Apparently, his roommate had already taken up residence. But fek and all, was he rooming with a Triderian swill-pig?

It was baffling, really. Clones didn't own that much, so how could one single clone manage to scatter so much stuff all over the place? A lopsided kit bag lay in one corner of the room, its contents spilling out over the sides: body gloves, extra pieces of armor, utility uniforms, a pair of very shiny black boots. Moving onto the bed on the left side of the room, there were papers, papers and more papers, a hand-held holo projector, loose protein bars and nutrient squeeze packs. On the opposite bed, a full set of armor was laid out neatly in stark contrast to the status of the rest of the room.

He took a closer look.

A much faded insignia showed on the shoulder guard. A reddish-brown image that looked like a half-clover, but he knew it was supposed to be a bow and arrow.

"729th TCB," he noted out loud. "Foot soldiers." He paused for a moment. The 729th was a fairly renowned unit. He'd heard lots of stories about their exploits, going for the tough assignments and winning.

"Well, I hope whoever he is, he doesn't think we're going to be battling for control of this room," he said out loud. "You only get one side, buddy." He began moving the orderly armor onto the messy bed. He had barely started when he heard raucous laughter coming from the hallway.

He opened the door and looked outside. At the far end, the end from which he had just come, he could see two clones—two very . . . ostentatious clones—one with short-cropped blond hair, the other with the double stripe of red hair running front-to-back that many clones wore in honor of their fallen comrades. The two were jostling and struggling down the hall, both clearly engaged in a contest of some sort.

Cody grinned. _"I guess being back here makes some guys feel like they're batch-kits again. That'll end soon enough once training starts. No one's going to skate or laugh their way through ARC school."_ He retreated back into his room and began to unpack his very small and sparsely-filled kit bag.

The hubbub in the hall was getting closer, getting louder.

And then it was outside the door. Banging, pounding, cursing, laughing.

" _These two might need to be encouraged to take it back down the hall,"_ Cody said to himself.

He opened the door, and the two men came careening into the room, toppling Cody in the process.

"I don't—know—why you think—you think you can—beat me!" The blond-haired clone blared, trying to get a foot-trap in place to trip the other one up.

"Because—I've—always been able—to beat you!"

"In your dreams!" With these words, the blond flipped the double-stripe onto the bed full of papers and other miscellany.

Everything went flying.

"Hey, hey!" Cody raised his voice, getting up off the floor and putting an arm between the two. "I know you're having fun, but you're making a mess! And this place was _already_ a mess to begin with."

The blond straightened up, his entire face red with heightened excitement, his eyes wide and filled with mirth. "Oh yeah . . . sorry about that. I didn't mean to leave it that way. But when I saw this guy again . . . "

"Imagine both of us getting selected to go through ARC training at the same time," redhead grinned, shaking his head. "I wonder what fool made that decision?"

"I take it you two know each other," Cody said.

"We were in the same pod, though different batches," redhead replied. "But we, uh, we mixed it up a lot growing up."

The blond trooper reached out his hand. "By the way, I'm 7567, your room-mate."

Cody froze for an imperceptible moment. _"Fek and all, is he serious? This is my room-mate?"_ He slowly reached out his hand. "I'm Cody. Nice to meet you."

"Cody? What—don't you have a number?" 7567 asked.

"I do. It's 2224, but my general calls me Cody, and that's what I prefer to go by," came the reply.

"Sounds good to me," 7567 said with a careless nod. "Cody it is."

Cody turned to the other clone. "And you are?"

"1004," he answered.

"What outfit?"

"7068th MP." 1004 smiled in an almost sinister manner. "But I'm gunning for something much bigger than that coming out of ARC school."

Cody grinned. "Oh?"

"The Forty-first."

"Elite Corps?" Cody was impressed.

7567 sniggered. "He has big dreams."

"Dreams are better than delusions," 1004 snapped back. "You want a position that isn't even open."

"Eh, I'm more than happy to go back to the 729th," 7567 replied. "They need me. Those are the rest of my batchers. I have to take care of them."

1004 simpered. "You just told me out there that you were aiming for the 501st, and they don't even have an opening."

Cody raised a brow. "The 501st? Under General Skywalker?"

"See, this is where you don't even pay attention to what I'm saying," 7567 harrumphed, pointing a finger at 1004. "I told you that was my _ultimate_ goal. I know they already have a first-in-command."

"Why not go there as a regular line officer?" Cody inquired.

"That's not for me," 7567 deferred. "I like being in charge."

An amused grin crossed Cody's face. "You do realize that General Skywalker is the one in charge?"

7567 was not deterred. "From all I've heard of him and the 501st, I think he'd like a clone captain who can think on his feet and lead the battalion in battle."

"He's got a captain like that," Cody pointed out. "Captain Stamp is one of the best."

7567 gleamed and winked. " _One_ of the best. You're looking at _the_ best."

1004 rolled his eyes and shook his head. He nudged Cody in the arm. "I'm just grateful to every power that exists that he's _your_ room-mate."

*FEBA: Forward Edge of Battle Action

 _ **Notes:**_

 _ **1\. So, I tossed in the bit about Droidbait, because I always felt sad that he got short shrift. Poor guy, "Can we please stop arguing?" and Hevy accuses him of being droid bait and getting in the way. So, I have my own little tribute to him in this chapter.**_

 _ **2\. 7068 MP - military police**_

 _ **3.**_ _ **5052 is Bly.**_

 _ **4\. 1004 is Gree.**_


	44. Chapter 44

_**Dear Reader, introducing a couple more clones. Again, I kind of throw off "canon" here, because I just like the way the story unfolded in my head! Enjoy! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 44 The Beginning: Room-Mates

" _The faculty had never before experienced a student who combined a calm ignorance of the rules with a winning urge to be good, who seemed to love the school truly and deeply, and never more than when he was breaking the regulations, a model boy who was most comfortable in the truant's corner."_

 _A Separate Peace  
_ John Knowles

* * *

"Well, it looks like you've still got some settling in to do," 1004 said, nodding at the room's disarray. "Catch you for grub this evening?"

"I'll come by at 1900," 7567 replied.

The double-stripe flashed a brilliant smile at his friend's room-mate. "Nice to meet you, Cody. And . . . good luck."

As soon as the door shut behind 1004, 7567 began to quickly gather up his belongings.

"I'm sorry about this. I had just started to unpack and then I heard a familiar voice out in the hallway. I got distracted. I hadn't seen him since coming on active duty. I didn't mean to leave such a mess." The words came pouring out in a rush that matched his hasty movements.

"It's not a problem—"

"I'm really not a slob—though it probably looks that way," 7567 cut him off. "And I wasn't sure what bed to take so, I just dumped stuff out everywhere."

Cody stared at him, scurrying about with more energy than such a task even required, and he began to wonder if he were not looking at the human equivalent of a tornado. There was such vibrancy, such unchained power swirling around 7567 that it was hard to believe he was just a clone like the rest of them. Whatever the dynamism was that wreathed and folded itself around him, it was something Cody had never encountered in another clone.

And it wasn't something he was sure he could tolerate.

He waited until he felt certain his room-mate had finished his rambling, then he said slowly and with a well-practiced grin, "I was moving everything onto the messy bed. I figured that was where you'd be sleeping."

"Right, right, that's good," 7567 nodded, still busily ordering his disorder.

Cody returned to unpacking his kit. "I see you're from the 729th."

At this, 7567 stopped long enough to straighten up with a puff of pride. "Vipers take the lead." The viper was the battalion symbol, and the phrase was their motto.

"Yeah, they have quite a reputation," Cody noted. He had seen the rank on 7567's armor, so he knew he was not a company commander. "You're a platoon leader?"

Already sinking into the conversation, 7567 promptly forgot about straightening up the room and sat askance on one corner of the desk. "Yes," he answered. "My company commander is a pretty amazing fellow. I think he was the one who convinced the battalion commander to recommend me for ARC training. I have to admit, I wasn't expecting it. I mean, not because I don't think I'm good enough—I know I am—but because I'd never really talked about going." A brightness flashed across his face. "But as long as I'm here, I'm going to show what I'm worth. The 501st may not be open right now, but I at least want to know it's within my reach. "

Cody was cordial. "You're pretty sure of yourself."

"It doesn't pay for a soldier to be timid," came the reply.

"I think there's a balance," Cody opined. "Finding that balance isn't always easy."

"No worries. I'll be here to help you find it."

These words brought Cody's head up abruptly. But when he saw the pointed expression on 7567's face and recognized the teasing humor there displayed, he relaxed and gave a small laugh.

"How are you going to help me find something that's apparently eluded you?" he quipped.

But 7567 was not put off. "Huh! I've never looked for it."

Cody shook his head, still chuckling, and returned to sorting through his meager belongings.

7567 came and stood at his side, watching the armor come out – for Cody, like all trainees, had arrived in the standard red and gray utility uniform.

"Is that—is that—"

Cody recognized the surprise—shock—in his room-mate's voice. And he finished the sentence for him. "The 212th Attack Battalion."

"You mean—General Kenobi's 212th Attack Battalion?" 7567 asked, incredulous.

"That's the one."

7567 slapped Cody on the shoulder with enough force to make him waver for an instant.

"Why didn't you say so before?!"

"Because it didn't come up until now," Cody answered.

"What a great piece of luck!"

Cody was nonchalant. "How so?"

"Because you can put in a good word for me,"7567 replied, as if the answer were obvious. "Imagine that: my room-mate being from the 212th. Fate couldn't have set things up any better."

"I think you're getting a bit ahead of yourself—"

"So, tell me about General Skywalker. And this Captain Stamp. It doesn't bother you that I want to kick him out of his job?" 7567 pressed.

Cody wasn't sure if he was serious or not; but something about this question, whether in jest or truth, rubbed the commander the wrong way. He replied evenly, "It may bother me to hear you say it, but it's not something I'm worried about happening. Stamp is a perfect fit for General Skywalker. Plus, he's a damned good captain."

"He'd have to be to work for General Skywalker," 7567 enthused, clearly excited about the topic. He dropped down heavily to sit on his bed, once again sending a small shower of items bouncing. "I hear the general plays by his own rules."

"That's . . . pretty much true," Cody conceded.

"That he's the greatest pilot in the GAR."

"Also probably true." Cody paused. "And the most reckless, I might add."

"That's most likely what makes him so good," 7567 proposed.

"There are a lot of things to be admired about General Skywalker," Cody stated. "His men are very loyal, very dedicated." He added with emphasis, "They feel the same way about Captain Stamp."

"They could feel the same way about me."

With his back to the brash lieutenant, Cody permitted himself a sardonic smirk. "Maybe."

7567's enthusiasm was not deflated. "It must be great to be in the 212th, to serve under Kenobi."

"It's a lot of responsibility, too."

"Of course, but I just meant that . . . he's a great Jedi."

"True." A pause, in which Cody felt his own importance. "But serving a great Jedi means you have to keep one step ahead of everyone else. General Kenobi doesn't allow his clone officers to slack off." He grinned. "He's already got his hands full with Skywalker."

"Maybe I'd have better luck getting into the 212th," 7567 said with mock thoughtfulness, swinging sideways and lying down with his hands behind his head.

Cody turned to face him with a grinning eye. "Now, you _are_ dreaming."

"Why? Look, we're room-mates, so when this is all over, you _can_ put in a good word for me, can't you?" 7567 said. He chuckled. "Who is the first-in-command for the 212th, anyways?"

"Are you thinking of going after that position now?"

"It might be more in reach than the 501st position."

For a moment, there was silence; then a battered helmet slid into 7567's view, coming to hover a meter above his face.

The stylized gold half-sunburst centered above the visor made his breath catch in his throat. He shot up into a sitting position then got clumsily to his feet.

"You? You're first-in-command?!"

Other than the fact that 7567 had gotten to his feet, Cody noticed little other sign of respect for his position and rank. But then, he was not too bothered by it. He didn't want to be treated differently simply because he was already a commander - and a commander in one of the most prestigious units in the GAR.

Besides, it wasn't so unusual to have a commander in ARC school. After all, the war was only 4 months old, and Cody had emerged from Kamino as a commander already. He'd been plucked from the ranks and groomed for officership, along with many thousands of others. The clones chosen to be officers had remained with their batchers but attended special classes and training courses meant to prepare them for leadership roles. Some emerged as captains, others as lieutenants, commanders, majors. A clone officer corps had been a necessity for the command control of such a vast army.

"I am." Cody hung his helmet on the wall-rack provided. He turned back and took a bold stance only inches in front of his room-mate. When he spoke, it was with a wry humor. "So, if you're thinking you'd like to take my job, get ready to have your ass handed to you." A pause. "And if you're thinking the 501st is just waiting there for you . . . then it's time for a reality check."

7567 was silent for a moment, then he grinned broadly. "I can still hope."

"Maybe you'd better focus that hope on just passing the course," Cody suggested. "I don't want to be known as the room-mate of the guy who washed out."

* * *

It was in the mess hall that evening that CT-7567 discovered something about his room-mate that he had not expected, certainly not after their rather rocky first meeting.

Cody was fairly well-known and even more well-liked.

The commander had entered the mess hall about thirty minutes behind 7567 and 1004, but he had joined their table—and the two other clones already present, CT-5052 and CT-2025—with his composure firmed up and ready to tolerate more of his room-mate's company. He had already considered that he might need to request a new room-mate, but that would seem like quibbling – especially after only a few hours—and so he was determined to make a go of it. After all, there _was_ something . . . compelling about 7567. He just feared it might compel him right out the room.

Within a few minutes, three more clones had joined them. All three knew Commander Cody, and the greetings exchanged impressed upon 7567 the high regard in which the commander was held. It confirmed to him that he had hit the jackpot, so to speak, in his room-mate assignment.

So what if the commander seemed a little . . . stiff? A little humorless? CT-7567 had known for a long time that what he considered dull in someone else was just usually just a reflection of the fact that he himself was so outgoing and boisterous. Few others could meet his level of energy, and he took a measure of pride in that knowledge. Still, he knew that he had a tendency to wear people out, and he did not want that to happen in this case. The truth was he liked his room-mate thus far – not just for the strategic positioning associated with his assignment to the 212th—but because he seemed like a man with a long fuse. And CT-7567 needed friends with long fuses.

Cody, for his own part, was used to the limelight and attention he garnered as General Kenobi's first-in-command. He cherished his position and missed no opportunity to learn everything he could from his general: how to both give and take orders, how to rally and inspire the men, how to use the most delicate diplomatic phrasing to win over squeamish civilian leaders.

In fact, Cody's assessment of his own weaknesses usually focused on specific skills and tasks, such as long-range precision gunnery or having the acumen to tweak and fine-tune his own rocket pack. It had never occurred to him – and why should it?—that he might have weaknesses of personality, of character? He knew who he was and had a high opinion of himself – every bit as high as 7567 had of himself – but the difference was that Cody did not feel it necessary, even in a joking manner, to speak of his own assets.

Now, as he sat listening to his room-mate regale the others with tales of adventure from the past four months, he was faced with a decision: listen to the incessant grandstanding, interrupt with his own stories or an invitation for someone else to speak, or he could find a reason to excuse himself.

He chose to bring others into the conversation. "2025, you've been through something similar," he said, cutting off 7567 in mid-sentence. "I'm sure we'd all like to hear about it."

CT-2025 looked taken aback for a moment. They all did. CT-7567 had been chattering away for the last half-hour, and no one had minded his monopoly of the conversation.

But there now arose a tacit recognition that this was the only way any of them would get a word in edge-wise around him, and that somehow, they were expected to be more than mere listeners.

And 7567 did not seem to mind in the least that he had been undercut in the middle of his story. Instead, he eagerly prodded 2025 to take up. "Let's hear it. I'm the only one who's been doing any talking."

1004 raised an eyebrow. "The rest of us don't get a chance to talk," he poked.

CT-2025 awkwardly launched into his own tale; but within a minute, he had grown comfortable, and seeing that 7567 bore him no ill will for being thrust out of the center ring, he settled down into an easy cadence and told the story of his first real battle. It prompted recollections from the others about their first battles, and the conversation went late into the night until, not surprisingly, Cody announced he was hitting the sack.

The others, in turn, called it a night.

Tomorrow was the first official day of training.

* * *

The alarm went off.

Not the reveille alarm meant to wake all the trainees. No, that wasn't due for another thirty minutes.

But Cody's alarm—his own private alarm, part of his HOPO—had been set for 0500. He liked to get a head start.

Cody had never had trouble waking up, getting out of bed, jumping straight into the day's work. And today was no different. He rolled onto his side and sat up, stopping short when he saw the bed opposite him was empty.

"Maybe he called it quits already," he mumbled, but the presence of 7567's gear, more neatly organized now but still not to the degree Cody would like, was indication that he was still around . . . somewhere.

"Not a chance."

Cody glanced to his right where the door to the bathroom—the quarters all had private facilities—was open, and standing in the doorway was 7567, towel around his waist, daubing the water from his bristly blond hair.

The commander felt a bit ashamed for having been heard making such a snide remark, but 7567's next words burned off that shame like fire steaming the water out of wood.

"I came here to prove I'm the best; so as long as _you_ don't wash out, we're together for the duration."

Cody got to his feet. "Are you joking or am I supposed to take you seriously?"

"I'm not joking," 7567 deferred, "And it's your choice whether or not to take me seriously." He walked back into the bathroom. "We could make a good team, you know."

Cody was not so sure of that, but he gave a neutral, factual response. "From what I know of past classes, we don't get to decide our own teams. And the teams change. _And_ , there are a lot of activities that are individual, not team."

"Then I'll try my best not to defeat you too badly when we're pitted against each other," came the loudly spoken reply.

" _And I can't wait to knock you on your fourth* every chance I get,"_ Cody mused. Aloud, he replied, "I'll try not to hit the ground too hard."

7567 emerged a moment later, pulling his black body glove on as he walked. "They're going to have to find a b-better de-SIGN! for these blasted th-INGS!" he grunted as he struggled with the form-fitting triple latex layer that formed the protective underpinnings of clone armor.

The commander was mostly able to hide his amusement at the sight and the sound and struggle. He would have offered to help—after all, that's what brothers did for each other, right? And it was common knowledge the body gloves were a clone's worst enemy after the Separatists. But he decided he would rather watch the spectacle than aid someone who had already found a dozen ways to get under his skin.

At last, Cody rose from the bed. "First day jitters get you up early?"

"Heck no, nothing like that," 7567 scoffed. "I got up and went to the gym. I like a good workout first thing in the morning."

Rounding the bathroom door and now out of sight, Cody frowned. This lightning bolt was even beating him out of bed in the morning? Hitting the gym before he'd even hit the alarm button.

"That's good," he said, but his tone was one pitch short of condescending. But Cody would not allow himself to become prey to his own vanities. His room-mate had a strong character; he was just going to have to get used to it.

"You can join me tomorrow," 7567 offered. "I'm always looking for someone to work out with."

"We'll, uh, we'll see."

* * *

Roll call was before breakfast.

And it was the first time the trainees would be meeting any members of the cadre.

CT-7567 stood with Cody on his right and the two clones from the next room on his left. One of those clones, CT-2025, had already made himself known to his neighbors in the mess hall the night before, and 7567 had been impressed.

CT-2025 was one of those men whose ebullience and sense of brotherhood was nothing short of awe-inspiring. In his recounting of his first battle the night prior, he had scaled the heights of eloquence after overcoming his initial discomfort, making each of them feel as if such a murky baptism was a rite of passage through which each clone had to pass, but through which he should never pass alone. His brothers must always be there at his side, to share in the trials and bolster whatever weakness a man might have.

His story-telling aside, he had also proven to be a quiet and observant man, listening with close attention and interest as the others had told their stories. And it seemed clear to Cody that 2025 wasn't just listening for entertainment's sake. He was listening in order to get to know the men who were speaking, who would spending the next six weeks in close quarters with him. He was someone who valued knowledge but only in order to gain understanding – and from understanding, wisdom.

Cody found himself wishing, perhaps unfairly, that he'd been roomed with 2025 – a man who seemed much more a team player, much more reserved and in command of his wits, much less . . . irritating than CT-7567.

But then again, perhaps there was truly something to be said of the role fate played in such matters, for 2025's room-mate was of a such a disposition that Cody imagined that only the steadiness and compassion of CT-2025 could bear and buoy the man's melancholy and pessimistic personality.

CT-5052—the same clone 7567 had met on the landing platform on O-12—had distinguished himself almost immediately as out-of-sorts and generally disagreeable. But it did not appear that he was intentionally being so; rather, the sentiments seemed to fulminate around him like an angry cloud in which he was trapped and unable to escape.

It was odd, truly; for he clearly wanted to be around the others. His presence at dinner last night was proof of that, even as he had sat sour and with a deeply etched scowl on his face the entire time. When the others had prompted him to tell the story of his first battle, he had balked at first; and when pressed, flatly refused with, "I'm not a story-teller. And I wouldn't tell that story anyway, even if I were."

This morning, Cody had made a point of looking at his armor to discern his unit.

The 388th Extraction Squadron, part of the 34th Airlift Wing.

Combat rescue. Searching out and removing troops from behind enemy lines.

The 388th was a unit of over 500 men with a very high mortality rate, given the nature of their mission. Not too long ago—maybe a month—a number of flights (flight being a unit within a flying squadron and comprised of approximately 30 men, the size of a batch) had been wiped out completely on a mission to evacuate portions of the civilian Twi'lek population on Ryloth from the path of a Separatist advance. Such evacuation operations had formed no part of the 388th's mission, and the sheer numbers and near-riot conditions at the embarkation points had overwhelmed the crews and delayed the ship's departures, giving the enemy time to send out the droid armies and launch an attack.

It had been a disaster.

That might account for CT-5052's morose demeanor, and it seemed his brothers at ARC training were willing to give him the space he needed, all the while wondering how he had managed to be selected for such a prestigious training course.

Yes, CT-2025 would be a good match for him as room-mate, perhaps able to nurse him out of the darkness surrounding him.

"Troops! Atten-chun!"

The 80 clones that comprised the ARC trainees came to attention, helmets tucked neatly between their forearm and right hip – the proper stance for attention, as opposed to the more lax practice of carrying the helmet just beneath the shoulder – a violation that would have earned them extra duty in the days of their cadet-hood.

The clone that now strode before them was well-known.

The commandant of the ARC school.

"I am Colonel Claw," he bellowed, marking each word with distinction. "Commandant and commander of the Advanced Reconnaisance Commando Training School." A pause, during which he paced slowly from one end of the front row to the other. "For the next six weeks, you belong to me and my team. Forget about the units you came from. Forget about where you think you might be headed after leaving here. From this moment on, we own you! And the only way you break that ownership is to graduate . . . or crash and burn. Front five rows, four steps forward!"

The front five rows executed the move with precision.

"Now turn and look behind you. Back five, look at the front five. That is how many of you will not make it to completion. Half of you will either bail out, fail out, or sustain injuries that will prevent you from continuing. It doesn't matter what high-visibility unit you came from. It doesn't matter what rank you are. It doesn't matter what reputation you bring with you. If you're not focused on the here and now, present in each moment as it happens, you will not become an ARC trooper. If you're not the best, you will not become an ARC trooper."

He stopped in front of CT-7567 – whether by design or happenstance was unknown.

"If you can't prove yourself a team player when needed and a solo player when needed, you will not become an ARC trooper." He leaned close. "Are those words clear to you, trainee?"

"Sir, yes, Sir!" 7567 barked.

Claw continued down the line. "You will have squad advisors, and these men will be your gods. You will obey them without question. You will carry out their orders in the most expeditious manner. You can be assured that they will often be the only thing standing between you and death or serious injury. Failure to heed their advice and follow their orders could result in your entire squad failing the course. Or much worse. These advisors are ARC troopers themselves, and they know the lay of the land."

This time he stopped in front of a clone whose closed grimace made it appear that he was trying very hard not to say something.

"Do you understand, trainee?"

"Sir, yes, Sir."

"Explain that look on your face, trainee. I think you have something to say . . . CT-3636, I believe it is. Am I correct?"

"Sir, yes, Sir. And no, I have nothing to say. Just anxious to get started."

Claw had perfected the sneer. "I'll bet you are." He stepped back and nodded to the cadre gathered behind him.

Two clones stepped forward.

"Meet Commander Steed and Major Tides. These two officers are your training officers. They will be overseeing operations on a day-to-day basis. Under them are eight squad advisors, one for each squad. You will be assigned to one squad for the entire six weeks, and command positions within that squad will rotate among members. So, whether you're an enlisted man or an officer, you will all get a chance to lead in one capacity or another."

Cody felt his heart sink. Apparently, things had changed since his last accounts of ARC training. It appeared that the off-world portion and extended duration were not the only new aspects of the program.

If they assigned squads by room, he would end up with 7567 for six very tedious weeks.

"I'm turning the floor over to Commander Steed and Major Tides for your squad assignments."

The next thirty minutes consisted of an exposition of rules, procedures, and expected conduct, as well as the introduction of the squad advisors. Cody waited with baited breath for the squad assignments and was admittedly thrilled when it was announced that he would be in Squad B while 7567 was in Squad E. There were eight ten-man squads altogether.

At the conclusion of the briefing, Commander Steed asked if there were any questions.

Cody stepped smartly forward. "I have a question, Sir!"

Steed nodded.

"Will we be retaining the same room assignments or regrouped with our squad mates?" As he asked the question, he could almost sense a ripple of . . . insult? offense? hurt? coming from behind him where 7567 stood with the rest of them, waiting for the answer.

"You will be keeping the same room assignments and the same room-mates," Steed replied. "Each squad will have its own strategic meeting room, but in order to foster camaraderie among the entire class, you will continue to be roomed with someone not in your squad."

"Understood, Sir." Cody stepped back.

"Are there any more questions? Good. Report back here at 0800. The fun's about to begin, trainees! Dismissed!"

Cody turned and started to walk out with the rest of his class. He purposefully avoided speaking to –or even making eye contact with – his room-mate. His reasons were not fully clear, not even to himself. On one hand, he felt some small bit of guilt that he might have embarrassed and offended 7567; but it was also the case that he was disgusted and frustrated with the idea that he was going to be stuck with him now for the full six weeks.

"It's neat that they all have actual names."

Cody gathered his composure, determined to comport himself with equanimity. He should have known that, even if 7567 had been offended, he'd be too tenacious to give up that easily. He glanced sideways at him. "Neat?"

"Yeah, neat. I like the idea of names. Even you have a name."

Cody congratulated himself on his self-possession. "Even me," he confirmed.

"You were the first clone I'd ever met who had a name," 7567 went on. "But everyone on the cadre has a name. Maybe we'll get names by the time training is over."

A somewhat arch, devious grin curled Cody's lips. "Well, I've got one for you. _Blondie_."

CT-7567 laughed, and Cody once again realized that nothing he'd said—nothing he could say or do, apparently—was having any negative impact on this irrepressible clone.

"Definitely not," 7567 chirped.

"Why not? It's how you look," Cody pressed. "You decided to dye your hair blond. Blondie seems appropriate."

"Heck no," came the protest again, this time with a bit more weight behind it. "No, no, no. And if you try to make that stick, so help me . . . you might wake up one morning with blond hair of your own."

Cody laughed despite himself. "I'd better start sleeping with one eye open."

 ***"Fourth" is short for "fourth point of contact" - or "ass"**

 **And yes, Colonel Claw - I just felt like a silly Star Wars name!**

 **Reminder:**

 **1004 - Gree**

 **2025 - Colt**

 **5052 - Bly**

 **3636 - Wolffe**


	45. Chapter 45

_**Dear Reader, Thanks for the feedback (and it's nice to see you again CT-782!) So, here's a reminder sheet of who's who. I've also introduced some OCs who will be reappearing - especially the ones in Rex's Squad.**_

 _ **2025: Colt  
5052: Bly  
1004: Gree  
3636: Wolffe  
7567: Rex**_

 _ **There's quite a bit of Wolffe in this one, and his character goes through lots of gyrations - both pleasant and unpleasant - as the story progresses. Also, a tribute to my own field training officer from days gone by, Captain Spicer; and a tribute to an old TV series that some of you may recognize when you see the name . . .**_

 _ **Enjoy! CS**_

* * *

Chapter 45 Range 9

" _Turn your back on the mouth that misleads, keep your distance from lips that deceive.  
Let your eyes be fixed ahead, your gaze be straight before you.  
Let the path you tread be level and all your ways be firm."_

Proverbs 4: 24-26

* * *

"Echo Squad leader for the first rotation: CT-2025." This announcement came from Captain Spicer, Echo Squad's advisor, and what a clone he was!

Immediately upon learning that Captain Spicer was to be his squad's advisor for the next six weeks, CT-7567 had begun trying to discern whether or not the man was as good as he appeared to be or whether his florid manner was just show and no substance.

Captain Spicer looked like he should have been a longshoreman at some sea-going port in the days before space travel. His neck was fully as big as a man's thigh, and it seemed impossible that he should have been able to fit his muscular bulk into the standard-size clone armor. He wore two very busy tattoos that climbed up the sides of his neck—7567 had not gotten a good enough look yet to see what they were—and his shaved head sported a dagger-shaped tattoo running from front to back.

His expression seemed to be one of perpetual challenge, as if he dared anyone to try and surpass him at any endeavor. And why shouldn't he feel up to any contest? He was the proverbial _mountain of a man_.

Ct-7567 was looking forward to seeing just what he was made of.

Spicer turned to CT-2025. "Take your squad to Range 9 and wait for me there."

"Sir, yes, Sir!" CT-2025 acknowledged. He waited until Spicer had begun to leave before turning to his squad mates. "Let's go, chaps."

CT-7567 spoke in a low voice. "You may want to take us there in formation and at the quick-step. They're always watching. We can look sharp from the beginning."

2025 nodded. "You're right." He used his command voice. "Left face! Forward march! At the quick-step, march!"

As they trotted along in two columns of five, 2025 spoke sideways to 7567 at the head of the other column. "Do you know where Range 9 is?"

"I'm thinking it was the same Range 9 we used when we were cadets," 7567 replied. "They didn't say anything about separate ranges."

"That's all the way over in West Tower 4." This came from CT-9090 behind them. 9090, though the others could not know it yet, was a born fuel injector; meaning that he loved taking whatever situation existed and throwing fuel on the fire. This was not done for malicious reasons or out of any desire for drama, but rather because 9090 was simply an extreme individual. He was not an instigator, but he was tremendously adept at intensifying a situation and carrying others along with him. Thus, upon overhearing the conversation at the head of the column, he had made his remark with the sort of overblown observational slant that made it seem as if the range were on another planet altogether.

2025 spoke louder back over his shoulder. "Did anyone catch anything about there being separate ranges for ARC training?"

No one had heard of there being such a thing.

"Unh! I should have just asked Captain Spicer," 2025 grumbled. Up ahead, they were approaching a divide in the corridor – a decision point.

"Why didn't you?" This from CT-390, in line directly behind 7567. CT-390 was, in 7567's newly formed estimation, going to be one of the tougher squad mates to get along with. He was the type of clone who really should have been sent to an advanced engineering school or a scientific laboratory. His primary focus appeared to be the _why_ of everything. In the brief moments since having been assigned to Echo Squad and taking breakfast with his squad mates, he'd wondered aloud, why had the last four weeks of ARC training been moved to Mayotta? Why did they mix newly graduated cadets with seasoned soldiers? Why were there no Jedi in charge of the ARC program? Why did they still use bounty hunters as instructors at ARC training? It had gotten somewhat monotonous.

And now, he wanted to know why 2025 hadn't sought out more information regarding the location of Range 9.

"Because the captain made it seem like something he expected me to know already," 2025 replied.

7567 chuckled. "Well, I guess we'll find out soon enough."

"We can go ask one of the training officers." This voice came from the back of one of the columns, from CT-8462, a clone who could best be described as rank-and-file – one of those newly graduated cadets whose presence 390 had questioned. He did, however, have one distinctive characteristic: his eyes, unlike the usual amber of the Jango Fett template, marked the occasional variance present in even the most controlled cloning operations. His eyes were brown – dark brown. He seemed to take a degree of pride in this peculiarity; but otherwise, he was quiet and—7567 opined silently—perhaps too timid to be an ARC trooper.

"We'll lose too much time," 9090 replied. "Every scenario in ARC training is by design – even this. They're waiting to see what we do, and if we take too long to do it, they'll gig us."

"But we may end up doing the wrong thing," 390 persisted.

They came to the divide. CT-7567 looked at 2025. "It's your decision. You're the squad leader."

"I agree with CT-9090. There's no time to run around trying to get clarification. I think it's best if we head to the Range 9 we know of, and if it ends up being a wrong decision, then we live with the repercussions."

CT-7567 nodded his agreement. He leaned in and spoke in a low voice to his squad mates. "It's only day one and it's only a training exercise. If nothing else, we'll give the cadre something to talk about at their own debrief tonight."

The others liked this idea and the conspiratorial tone in which it was spoken.

"West Tower 4, it is," 2025 announced. "At the quick-step, march!"

* * *

"Wow, this is a lot more dynamic than anything they had when we went through. I didn't even know this level existed." CT-1004 stood at the railing of the command view box overlooking the massive hangar-like training simulator. "That looks almost real."

"A lot different from the gray box construction of the Citadel challenge," Cody replied. "I think they built these training pods specifically for ARC school. They _are_ pretty impressive." As he spoke, the training scenario below them transformed from urban to jungle, complete with heat and steam; then to desert, sweltering, dry and cloudless. "They can take a trainee through all kinds of conditions and still maintain a controlled environment. A good way to ease us into the more difficult challenges on Mayotta."

"As if our battle experiences weren't challenge enough," 1004 said with a grim smile.

"Remember, not all of us have battlefield experience yet. Half the class is coming straight from the cadet corps. My guess would be that they want to use the two weeks on Kamino to assess where we're at," Cody replied. "Mayotta will be where they thin out the candidates."

The sound of whooshing doors turned their attention behind them as another squad arrived.

This time it was Havoc Squad, with a very self-assured CT-3636 leading the way. Like Cody, CT-3636 was already fairly well-known as one of General Plo Koon's top tactical advisors, and he had a reputation that preceded him. CT-3636 was not the sort of man who felt he needed any distinguishing physical factor to set himself apart from his peers, and as such, he had maintained the standard template appearance. Rather, he had full confidence that his abilities alone said everything about him that needed to be said. He wasn't much for small talk. He certainly had no use for pomp and fanfare. He viewed everyone and everything from a standpoint of constant assessment, and he had an acerbic wit that often found its way into his expressions—both vocal and non-vocal. Still, he was not without compassion—though he believed any display of it was weakness; and so he was well-regarded by the others even as they maneuvered only cautiously towards forming a more solid acquaintance with him. He led his squad past the others with courteous nods of acknowledgment and joined them at the railing to marvel at the training platform below.

That accounted for all squads but one.

And why was Cody not surprised that the one squad missing . . .

. . . was his room-mate's?

* * *

Range 9 was full to capacity.

With cadets.

Physically, they looked to be about fourteen years old. Chronologically, that made them seven.

Not a single one of the other ARC squads were in sight. Nor were any of the ARC instructors.

"I think we . . . made the wrong choice," CT-390 pronounced.

"It does look that way," 2025 agreed.

"Look, here comes one of their instructors," CT-7567 pointed out.

The instructor was one of the contracted bounty hunters, and at least two of the squad members recognized him right away.

"You boys lose your way?"

"We were told to report to Range 9," 2025 replied. "This was the only Range 9 any of us knew of."

The instructor's reaction was one of expectation, as if he were not surprised in the least to see them.

"Range 9 for ARC training is back where you came from. Cluster Six contains all the ARC training facilities. Range 9 is on the top level of Pod 6-1." He grinned. "Good luck, boys. You're gonna need it."

As Echo Squad began heading back, CT-9090 scowled, "That instructor knew we were coming. He'd been expecting us! You could tell! Captain Spicer let us go there on purpose!"

"But why? To make us look like fools?" This was the first time CT-8448 had spoken up. Another clone fresh from the cadet corps, he tended to defer to the battle-hardened clones around him; but he had a certain spark, an occasional streak of boldness that made him a very interesting character, as no one ever knew when that boldness would show up. CT-7567 thought he would make a very fine officer some day, if he ever found a way to ignite the spark and keep it burning.

"That's exactly why," 7567 answered. "To get under our skin and see how we would react. Remember, they're sizing us up. They'll do it with each and every man in each and every squad. We're just the first. We'll show them they can't rattle us that easily."

CT-2025 voiced his fervent agreement. "I think 7567 is right, so when we get to Range 9, I want everyone to maintain their professionalism. We won't even act like it bothered us. One thing an ARC trooper should always be is in control of his emotions."

* * *

"As you can see, Range 9 is not just a firing range," Commander Steed pointed out. "It can be programmed to imitate limitless topographies and scenarios . . . and enemies. In a very realistic manner. Which means that when you take a blaster bolt on this range, you're going to feel it. No, it won't cause any permanent damage, but it won't be a pleasant experience. Your injuries on this range will be temporary equivalents to the real thing." A smooth grin descended over his face – a face the same as those staring back at him, but with one highly visible difference: a light saber burn mark above his right eye, testament to an injury that should have killed him. Luck had been on his side that day. His wry wit was with him today. "It's the perfect way to . . . unwind at the end of a busy day. We're going to give you all a chance to show us how well you can relax."

At that moment the doors opened and Echo Squad came in, not in a hurried, discombobulated rush, but in formation, calm and orderly.

 _Relaxed._

CT-2025 called them to a halt and stepped forward to render a crisp salute to Commander Steed.

"Sir, I apologize for our delayed arrival!"

CT-7567 noticed Captain Spicer standing back with the other advisors near the simulation control panel, and he knew then that he'd been absolutely right in assessing the situation. Spicer had sent them off with dubious instructions, and as a squad, they had not thought to seek clarification until it was too late.

"Where have you been?" Steed asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Sir, I mistakenly thought Captain Spicer wanted us to report to the Range 9 used in cadet training. I was unaware that any other Range 9 existed."

Steed regarded him with the cold stare of a rancor. "You didn't ask him if there was another range?"

"No, Sir."

"Why not?"

"I didn't want to—appear ignorant," came the honest reply.

"So, it was your _pride_ that caused you to lead your men in the wrong direction?" Steed challenged.

"It would appear so, Sir."

Commander Steed took a step past him and addressed the entire corps. "This is why an ARC trooper must never place his own ego and pride ahead of the mission. A failure to understand the objective here in this case causes you to be . . . late. Maybe it causes your team to fail a task. Maybe it results in injury. But in war, when pride stands in the way of fully comprehending the mission and all its details, the result is death, serious injury, or losing the battle." A pause. "And none of you should be thinking in your smug little minds that you would never make such a mistake. This time it was Echo Squad. Next time, it will be someone else. And for _their_ error, they have only lateness to show for it. The rest of you may not get off so easy."

"With all due respect, Commander . . . "

CT-7567.

Cody felt his face flush, and he could not comprehend why he should feel embarrassment on his room-mate's behalf. He grit his teeth and hoped whatever was coming would not be too asinine.

"In battle, I don't expect my commanding officer to purposefully lead me and my men into danger based upon false premises," CT-7567 put forth.

The silence was enough to make every trainee feel uncomfortable.

But this was not the first time Commander Steed had faced a questioning student, and the truth was that he'd been expecting such a challenge from this clone.

"CT-7567," he began slowly, coming to stand in front of him. "I knew it wouldn't be long before you pushed your nose out, but I admit I hadn't expected it to be on the first day."

CT-7567 could have felt many different things at that moment, but _flattered_ took the throne. His commanding officer in the 729th had told him he'd become well-known to some of the powers-that-be; and this seemed to be proof of that.

"There is certainly something admirable in the idea, the hope, that a commanding officer would never lead his troops into unnecessary danger," Steed began. "But I want you to consider this. Is intelligence always correct? No. Oftentimes, a commander makes decisions based on what he believes to be the case, and if the intel is wrong, that commander may end up leading his troops into a danger that could have been avoided or mitigated." A pause as he once again strode before the entire group. "But that isn't all. All wars have traitors. Men who would lead their fellow troops into harm's way with the sole purpose of seeing them die." He returned to CT-7567 and drew within inches of his face. "The question is, will you be able to detect them when you meet them? That's food for thought, lieutenant. An answer is not required." He stepped back. "And that, once again, is why an ARC trooper leaves nothing to chance. Put the ego aside, forget about doing anything half-assed anymore. An ARC trooper observes, listens, and performs his own recon and research. Questioning situations is acceptable when you have reason to believe something isn't right." Another pause. "Or when you don't have the full information." He turned to 2025. "Have your squad fall in."

As Echo Squad took their place, Major Tides took over. He was not quite as intimidating as Steed, but he had his own special identifiers, one of which seemed to be a penchant for the idea of real pain and real effort. "Our first exercise is just a friendly little game of _raise the flag_. We'll be pitting one squad against another, changing scenarios for each challenge. The winning squads from each challenge will then play against each other until we have one final squad standing. And they will play against a team of ARC troopers. Challenges are 1-hour each or until one team raises the flag, whichever comes first." He noted the nods of approval and excitement from most of the trainees. "You will not be using your own weapons. We will issue specialized trace-tracker blasters that will mimic injuries commensurate with those inflicted. This range has over ten billion trace sensors, so if you get shot in the leg, that sensor will tell the trace to inflict _a mimic_ of that same level of injury until the sensors are shut down at the end of the scenario. Understand what that means, gentlemen: it means that instead of just getting stunned and blissfully sleeping it off, you will feel any blaster- or explosion-caused injury as if it is real. If you've never been injured before, this is going to be a shock to your system. You may pass out. You may get sick to your stomach. We've even had men ready to kill themselves to stop the pain. The sensors monitor all that, and we have a full team up there in the control room, along with the on-duty medical crew, making sure safety parameters are met. They'll halt the scenario if they need to, or order the removal of any individual who's in serious mortal danger." He finished with a flare. "So, let's have some fun! Let's start with Alpha Squad versus Havoc Squad. Raise the Flag challenge, Variant 2888, Dorain Mesta Fire Valley. Advisors, take your squads to the prep rooms. The rest of you, find a good viewing spot. Take notes on your HUDS, because at the end of the whole thing, we're going to have after action reports. And . . . may the best squad win."

* * *

CT-3636 still could not stop marveling at how wonderful it felt to be back in armor. For the four months since the war's start, he'd been wearing the standard Republic Navy uniform as a bridge tactical officer. He'd spent the two years prior to his coming on active duty practically living in armor – training armor and then the real thing; so when he'd found himself once again wearing a uniform instead of armor, he'd somehow felt that he'd taken a step backwards.

To be sure, his selection as General Plo Koon's senior tactical officer was a boon and an honor. The general was a tremendous leader, even-minded and fair, brilliant both strategically and tactically, and extraordinary in his compassion for others, including his clone troopers. 3636 considered that he'd been assigned to the best, and he took great pride in his accomplishments under the Jedi general.

Like Cody, he, too, was a commander. And like Cody, it was his full intention to return from ARC school straight back to the unit from which he had come. CT-3636 had no desire to be reassigned. His only goal was to move from tactical planner to field commander – to put on the armor and garner the title of first-in-command.

But he was under no illusions, for there was someone already occupying that spot; and that someone was well-regarded by General Plo Koon.

CT-33 had been with the general since the start of the war, coming to him as his first-in-command and remaining in that position. CT-3636 knew that, barring 33's reassignment, injury, or—Force forbid—death, he stood no chance of taking over that position. But even if he couldn't be first-in-command, he could ask for a field command. Company commanders tended to have high turn-over rates, injury and death being the top causes.

At this moment, CT-3636 was glad he'd been a tactical officer for the past four months. He could put that knowledge to use here in the training scenario. Hell, he already knew what the Dorain Mesta Fire Valley was all about. He knew the topography, the dangers, the tactical and strategic advantages. It wouldn't be his first time planning out a mission in such environs. How many of the others had such a headstart on the game? He felt assured that there could be none with the degree of experience he had when it came to the landscape or tactical operations planning.

He did acknowledge—to himself only—that Commander Cody was going to be tough one to beat, and he was already anticipating that matchup. Cody had, by far, the greatest name recognition among them; but that was because of his assignment to General Kenobi. At least, that was CT-3636's firm belief.

He'd also heard talk of a firebrand coming out of the 729th. In fact, he'd heard about CT-7567 well before ARC training. Apparently, there was a sure-shot, knows-no-fear lieutenant with enough charisma to win over just about everyone who came into contact with him; a humble-less over-achiever with a penchant for flashy gun-slinging, dare-devil exploits on the battlefield, and absolutely no sense of mortality.

It might have been a somewhat overblown report—in fact, it was, but only slightly. Still, CT-3636 was curious to see this emerging star—for what else could describe such adulation—if for no other reason than to confirm to himself that the burgeoning reputation was nothing but hyperbole and without substance.

CT-3636 was not about to entertain the idea that there could possibly be anyone among the trainees who could present any real competition to him – except Commander Cody.

Havoc Squad's advisor, Captain Scarlet, gathered his squad around the holo-table in their prep room.

He pulled up the three-dimensional schematic.

"This is a plat of the Dorain Mesta Fire Valley. Have any of you ever been there before?"

CT-3636 nodded. "I have."

"So have I." This came from another clone, CT-1291.

"Then you know what it's like," the advisor stated. "Surface temps of over 130 degrees. Perpetual firepots, ground that gets so hot, it cracks and shifts as you're walking on it. Fire funnels." His gaze went slowly, seriously around the faces before him. "Let me be clear on this. You get mixed up with any one of those hazards, the trace-trackers in those obstacles will signal the injury, and that injury will follow you until the scenario is ended or you're removed. This isn't hraka, trainees. You don't want to take these obstacles for granted. You will feel pain like you've probably never felt before in your life."

That warning out of the way, he continued with the mission. "Your starting point is here. Your goal is at the opposite end, 250 meters away, here on this ridge. The goal is to raise your squad's flag before the other team raises theirs."

"What are the rules?" CT-3636 asked, since he had been put in charge of Havoc Squad for the first rotation.

"No rules. The mission is to plant your flag."

"No rules? Is the other team being told the same thing?" 3636 inquired skeptically, having already seen and been lectured about the importance of not leaving things to chance.

"They are getting the same instructions as you."

CT-3636 was not satisfied. "But are they being told that there are no rules."

Captain Scarlet smiled, pleased with his trainee's persistence and intuition. "Only if they ask."

"So, they know they have the goal of setting their flag on our end, but they won't know that there are no rules," 3636 surmised.

CT-1291 shook his head. "In the absence of stated rules, there are no rules. Even if Alpha Squad doesn't inquire, it stands to reason they would proceed as if there are no rules."

CT-3636 pressed once more. "Captain Scarlet, are you telling us the truth? Is Alpha being given any kind of rules? Or strategy, for that matter?"

"None whatsoever. You have your mission. Now, we want to see how you accomplish it." Scarlet motioned to a small crew of clones—part of the team—who handed out the tracer blasters to the trainees.

"Make sure you align your sites," one of the clones reminded them. "You're going to want to make sure you have good aim."

Captain Scarlet looked at the chronometer on the wall. "You have fifteen minutes to come up with your plan of attack. I'll be here to observe, but I will not offer any advice nor answer any questions. Your time starts now, trainees."

 _ **Hraka is from Watership Down, it's Lapine for "excrement"**_

 _ **Captain Scarlet . . . the good ole days.**_


	46. Chapter 46

_**Dear Reader, I think after this chapter I will have to put out a "Who's Who and in Which Squad" posting to help keep track of all these guys! In this chapter, I introduce CT-5869, Lieutenant (soon-to-be commander) Stone. You may recall him as the poor Coruscant Guard officer put in charge of the ill-fated mission to deliver the spice ransom to Hondo in exchange for Dooku. Don't know what it is about his animation, but he has a nice clean look. I always wished we'd seen him in more episodes; but since we didn't, here he is! Cheers, CS**_

Chapter 46 Alpha Havoc

" _All action takes place, so to speak, in a kind of twilight, which like a fog or moonlight, tends to make things seem grotesque and larger than they are."_

 _On War_  
Carl vonCKlausewitz

* * *

CT-7567 took up a place along the railing with his squad mates. They had moved to the far side of the training platform and stood looking down onto the scenario that was taking shape below them. A crackling magnetic shield had been activated above the platform, and this shield protected the spectators from not only the climatic and topographical aspects of the scenario—such as heat, lava, fire, and the like—but it also protected them from being hit by errant trace-tracker fire.

From the spectator side, it appeared as a clear and occasionally sparkling dome of clear energy. For those within the scenario, it would appear as the corresponding sky to the internal landscape. Yet, it was this faux sky, this energy shield itself, that contained the billions of trace trackers that would make the training environment one of the most realistic platforms in existence within the Republic's facilities.

Above the training platform and its dome, there were dozens of massive screens that allowed for the observation of individuals and locations within the scenario; and they offered a multitude of angles and viewpoints.

"Anyone care to make a wager?" 7567 smiled round at his squad mates.

CT-2025 grinned gamely. "I'm always ready to win a bet. What'll we wager?"

"Gigs. Losers have to work off the winners' gigs," 7567 replied.

"That'd be kind of hard to track, don't you think?" 390 queried.

"It's just for fun," 7567 replied. "It doesn't have to be scientific."

"The cadre would never let us pawn our gigs off on another trooper," 390 continued to balk.

"Most of the time, they won't even know," 7567 grinned.

"You're not giving them much credit," 2025 put forth. "If one of us is given extra duty, and another one of one of us shows up to do that duty, you don't think they'll notice that?"

"There are ways to make it happen." CT-7567 sounded so sure of himself that it was hard not to want to believe him.

"Sounds good to me." This from CT-9218, another newly graduated trooper. He was an amiable, pleasant fellow, easy-going and game for anything. He was also a crack shot and a pretty incredible pilot in both fighters and heavies. His manner was always relaxed, happy to go along with the crowd; yet, he had an alertness to him that CT-7567 was already starting to recognize as a great force multiplier.

"I'm in," CT-9090 agreed.

The others nodded their participation.

"So, who are you picking in this matchup, 2025?" 7567 started.

"Well, I don't know anything about either team, but I'll go with Alpha Squad."

When all bets were taken, four of them had chosen Alpha. The other six had chosen Havoc Squad.

CT-7567 had come down on the side of Alpha.

Now all that remained was to watch.

And maybe learn something.

* * *

CT-3636 had only one complaint.

There was no intelligence on the enemy. No information about the opposing squad leader, his tactics, his personality. That, in 3636's estimation, was a gross deficiency going into any scenario. His experience as a tactical officer had taught him the value of studying his enemy—their commanders and the average soldier. Oftentimes, knowing the identity and background of the particular enemy commander facing him formed the foundation upon which he would build his strategy.

He knew none of that in this scenario. He knew only that he was facing off against a fellow clone. He wasn't even sure who was in charge of Alpha Squad at the moment; and it was unlikely he would have known much about him, even if he had known his identity. Since arriving at training, he'd seen only a handful of troopers with whom he was somewhat familiar.

But intelligence of enemy forces was often in short supply in the real world, and CT-3636 had developed many battle plans without such knowledge. And he had done an outstanding job, according to his success rate . . . and General Plo Koon.

He and his squad mates traded their own personal weapons for trace-tracker versions; and before entering the training platform, he ordered his men to adjust the filtration system in their helmets to account for the scorching air and gases of the Dorain Mesta Fire Valley.

"This close to the fire pots, the temperature is going to be a hell of a lot more than 130, more like 200. It's going to feel like a fire in there. Our armor will hold the heat at bay for no more than 30 minutes tops. After that, the polysteen will begin to warp. Within 10 minutes, it will begin to melt and burn through the body glove. There's no place within the scenario to escape from the heat, so we have 30-40 minutes tops. I know they said we'd have up to an hour, but that's just not true, if this is a realistic environment," CT-3636 instructed his men. "With that in mind, there's not going to be any screwing around. We've got to get in there and take the thing as fast as we can." A pause, then he gestured towards the schematic. "There are three approaches to our high ground where they'll be trying to plant their flag. We have to block those approaches. CT-8881, I'm putting you here to take out anyone who comes this way. 7106, you're here. CT-309 . . . you'll take this narrow cutting—looks like an old mining cutaway. And CT-2303, you'll keep hidden here as a last line of defense in case the enemy gets past any one of them. The rest of you will go with me to the objective."

He proceeded to lay out the path they would follow, and he warned them extensively about the dangers of the Fire Valley.

"Stay as far away from the edges of the fire pots as you can," he instructed. "Because below that fire is lava, and the ground around the edges is brittle and will break right under your feet. I don't know what these trace-trackers can do to imitate falling into a lava pit, but—" a somewhat perverse smile tugged at his lips, "—I imagine it will be a few short seconds of agony and then a simulated death. Also, in places like this, where the gorge is narrow: these are prime locations for fire funnels. We'll only go through these passages as a last resort. I want to try and stay here along the perimeter route. It might be a bit more rocky, but there don't appear to be as many hazards. The one thing we could encounter in this area are Burning Scorpions. They can't get through our armor or the body glove, but they're swarmers. They can cover your visor to the point you can't see where you're going, and you could end up falling into some other hazard. If you don't disturb them, they won't bother you." He then assigned his own detail's positions within the squad. CT-7767 would take third position and carry the flag, CT-9012 and 8713 would take second and fourth positions. CT-8722 and 1291 would bring up the rear in fifth and sixth position. CT-3636 himself would be in the lead. "And just a reminder: 8722 and 1291, check your six constantly – not just for the enemy, but for funnels and scorpions . . . and anything else trying to get us out there. Let's not get too spread out. We'll have greater strength in numbers, if we encounter the enemy. And remember, the goal is to _set the flag._ It's not to kill the enemy, it's not for all of us to come out of this alive. It's to set the flag. Keep that in mind at all times. Any questions?"

"Let's do this," CT-7767 said with excitement. "We can win this entire thing."

CT-3636 nodded. "I think so, too."

The red light above the short passageway that led into the platform turned amber.

"Into the chute you go, boys," Captain Scarlet announced. "When the light turns green, you'll enter the scenario and once the door shuts behind you, the exercise will be underway. The exercise will terminate after 60 minutes."

CT-1291 spoke up. "What if neither side has planted their flag?"

"Both teams will be eliminated from the challenge."

With this happy knowledge, Havoc Squad donned their helmets, made sure their seals were secure, and entered the passageway. A heavy durasteel door came down slowly behind them.

"Lock and load," 3636 ordered.

A 10-second countdown sounded over the klaxon. The doors opened.

A blast of superheated air jolted them; and despite the protection of the armor, they felt as if they had entered a smelter. They moved onto the platform. When the door closed a few seconds later, CT-3636 immediately got his men moving. The four who were to guard this end took up their positions, while the others headed off across the 250 meters of hellish terrain.

CT-3636 had calculated that it would take them no more than ten minutes to cross the expanse, given they met with no obstacles or the enemy. He also knew that was unlikely. It was a certainty that the technicians overseeing the scenario were anxiously watching the progress of both squads, impatiently tapping their fingers as they waited for the right time and locations to inject trouble into the mix.

He had imagined they would let the first few minutes go by in relative peace, lulling the trainees into a sense of false security. And based on this assumption, he had determined that they needed to cover as much ground as possible during those early quiet minutes.

CT-3636 hated being wrong.

And he was wrong this time.

Less than a minute into the exercise, as he and his detail headed for the perimeter route he had chosen, they had to pass over a narrow stretch of ground bordered on either side by fire pots. Without warning, one of them spouted a searing column of lava that came glopping down in all directions.

"Take cover!" 3636 shouted over his helmet comm, but there were very few options for sheltering place.

Caught off-guard and carrying the flag, CT-7767 lost his balance and almost went tumbling into one of the firepots. It was only the quick reflexes of CT-8713 that saved him.

CT-8722 and 1291, at the back of the group, managed to dive out of range, while 9012 took cover with 3636 behind a jutting rock.

After the short-lived eruption had died down, CT-3636 ordered the others to move forward – and quickly. He led them away from the firepots to a shallow crevice in the wall of one of the many criss-crossing gorges.

"If you got hit with any of that stuff, wipe it off against the rock," he ordered. "That stuff'll burn through, so get it off of you."

Every one of them had been hit to a greater or lesser degree, and they took the time now not only to scrape the lava from their own armor, but to help each other with the task, as well.

"We should be able to start climbing up to the high ground once we're on the other side of that steam field," CT-3636 told them.

"And I'll bet they have another surprise waiting for us," CT-8722 stated.

"I'll bet you're right," 3636 replied. "But the only other way to get there is through this gorge, and that's also dangerous. If we get caught in a fire funnel, I don't think even our armor will save us."

"Then we'd better do it," CT-1291 said.

As it turned out, they made it through the steam field without incident. And now, they began their ascent to the high rocky ground. It was a treacherous climb. The rocks were lose and gave way easily, making the clones' progress slow and clumsy.

CT-8713, scrabbling up the steep slope behind 7767, fell to his hands and knees as the jumble of rocks rolled away beneath his feet. As he straightened up, he saw dozens of small black flecks on his gauntlets. He quickly brushed them off with his hands then looked down to see more of the black flecks, hundreds of them, covering his feet and climbing up his legs.

"Scorpions! Scorpions!" he cried out, moving away and trying to shake the creatures off his legs.

"Stay calm!" CT-3636 commanded. One thing that could definitely be said about 3636: he had a powerful command voice that brought immediate results. "They can't get inside your suit. Just feel your way back down to the bottom. 8722, stay with him—keep your distance—and verbally guide him back into the steam field. The steam will kill the scorpions. But whatever you do, don't get close to him or they'll come after you, too. And 8713, for fek's sake, don't panic. You understand? Don't panic." A pause. "The rest of you, keep climbing and watch your footing."

* * *

"Well, that's a kriffing mess," CT-7567 said with an inappropriately gleeful tinge in his voice.

"You know they're going to go into that steam field and never come out," 9090 announced.

"That's what I'm hoping for. I want to see how these trace-tracker things work," 7567 replied.

"Oh, I think we're _all_ going to get our turn to find out how they work." This from CT-2025. "But I have to say I'm not looking forward to it quite the way you are."

CT-7567 chuckled. "I'm not looking forward to seeing them work on _myself_. But I'm not opposed to watching them at work on the other squads."

His squad-mates laughed – even CT-390.

"I wonder who we'll be competing against?" CT-8462 said.

A glimmer shone in 7567's eye. "I can tell you who I _hope_ we'll be competing against." He relished the looks of anticipation coming back at him. "Bravo Squad."

"Commander Cody's Squad?" 9090 sounded incredulous.

CT-2025 laughed doubtfully. "You're off your nut."

"Yeah," 390 agreed. "He's probably going to be the toughest one to beat at anything."

"He's General Kenobi's first-in-command," 9090 reminded him.

"He's also your room-mate," 2025 added.

"Which is precisely why I want the chance to go up against him," CT-7567 replied. "I know how good he has to be in order to serve under General Kenobi. He'll be a good test of my own skills."

CT-2025 shook his head with an almost pitying grin. "Sounds like a good way to brown off your room-mate."

"Eh, I think I've already browned him off," came the reply. "But I like him. I think I can learn a lot from him. And maybe he can learn a thing or two from me."

At that moment, a giant ball of steam burst up from the training floor below. "Hey, look! You were right, 9090!" This from CT-2848, yet another Echo Squad newly commissioned officer. "Those two are down, and it doesn't look like they're getting back up."

"Fek and all, that looked pretty damned realistic to me," CT-8462 breathed. "Damn, I wonder what scenario we'll be in. I hope it's not this one."

"Check it out," CT-390 said, nodded towards the screens. "Alpha seems to be doing pretty good."

* * *

As Alpha Squad's first rotation squad leader, CT-5869 knew he had to prove himself from the get-go. As a lieutenant in a squad with at least two more lieutenants and two captains, he had to commit himself to asserting his authority and not allowing more domineering personalities to overpower him.

Not that he was a pushover, because he most certainly was not. As a member of the Coruscant Guard (CG), he'd had to deal with his fair share of overbearing politicians and diplomats, high-strung superiors, and often immovable Jedi. But he'd managed to do quite well as a platoon leader, earning the admiration of his men, and somehow finding the right balance between military order and tactful diplomacy.

Truthfully, he enjoyed being a member of the CG; but he also knew that many of his fellow officers looked upon the guard with a certain degree of derision. The CG was considered a cushy assignment, not in any way equal to the front-line units.

But CT-5869 knew otherwise.

While it was true that he did not see battle with nearly the frequency of the line units, his position as a team member for many of the interplanetary diplomatic missions had resulted in his foray into a multitude of danger zones, usually protecting high value targets such as senators, negotiators, envoys and ambassadors – even royalty, on occasion.

He was good at what he did. Level-headed, slow on the trigger, and with a seemingly infinite well of patience: he was perfectly suited to dealing with civilian leaders. He would be happy to become an ARC, but he wanted to remain on Coruscant, hopefully to attain the rank of colonel one day and take command of the Senate Guard.

Let the field officers sneer if they wanted. Let them say that the CG was no place for ARC trooper and would only be a waste of skill. CT-5869 was not so easily swayed; and at least here at ARC training, he would show his peers exactly what he was made of.

As a strategist, his plan had been quite different from his opponent's.

"Moving a lot of men through such hostile terrain only gives the enemy and the scenario team too many easy targets to mess with." This had been the conclusion that had led to his line of attack. "Four of you will make for the objective. You'll stay together as a team, but if you have to sacrifice three on the way, make sure one gets there. The goal here is to plant a flag; but I want you to think of it like this instead: Imagine you need to get to a bomb and defuse it. Everyone dies if at least one of you isn't successful. At the same time, the enemy is trying to get here to plant another bomb. The rest of us will be here to stop them from doing that. And believe me, we'll stop them. We'll give you the time you need. _You_ just need to be successful."

He was nowhere near as calculating as CT-3636. He had neither the tactical nor strategic experience of his opposing squad leader. But what he did have was the right mixture of earnestness and esprit-de-corps to motivate his men to succeed. He would not tell them how to suck the proverbial egg; he would just impress upon them the importance of making sure the job got done.

For CT-5869 there was no beauty in the process, no honor in the method. There was victory only – and a pretty path to it was not necessary.

The four-man team he had dispatched towards the objective had already made it past two stretches of firepots and barely managed to outrun a fire funnel that had chased them down one of the gorges. Two of them had gotten a bit singed on that one, but they were all four still on their feet, still moving.

Unlike Havoc Squad, Alpha was sticking with the lowlands, huddling close together as they went, and carefully picking their path, even if it meant their progress was not as fast as they wished.

And then, the conflagration.

If the obstacles of the scenario were not enough to hinder both sides' progress, the untimely meeting of the two groups – now four against four with the loss of Havoc's two troopers in the steam field – completely disrupted their movement.

The battle that ensued had their fellow trainees up on the observation loop howling and scoffing, cheering and hooting – none of which was heard by the two groups on the platform.

Within a matter of minutes, two of Alpha's men were down in the simulated death of the trace trackers.

CT-3636 was ordering his men to continuing firing. What he could not see that the observers could, was that one of the remaining Alpha troops had broken away under cover of a series of firepot flash explosions and managed to dash behind the line of Havoc soldiers and was headed for the objective.

The troop, CT-7771, was stealthy and cautious. He made it clear to the base of the rise upon which he was to plant the objective. A few adjustments to his helmet's visual sensors and he was able to pick up the cooler red heat signature of a body against the deeper red of the superheated surroundings. The enemy trooper was crouched behind one of the rock spinneys halfway up the route which 7771 planned on taking.

This was where ruthlessness would have to come into play.

He took careful aim at the lip of rock above where the enemy was hiding. A single blast brought the rock crashing down, and for a frightening moment, CT-7771 wondered how something so realistic could be simulated so as not to be deadly in reality. But the moment of consideration passed quickly—he trusted the scenario controllers—and he raced up the path, climbing over the fallen rock.

A blaster bolt nearly caught him in the shoulder, but his own stumble had made the shot miss.

He flung himself sideways behind a small boulder that offered scant protection, squeezing off a blind shot as he did so. When no shots were fired in return, he carefully peered out from around the rock and could see on the top of the rise, the armored feet of a fallen body.

His wild shot had hit its mark!

Or had it?

This could be a trick to lure him out of hiding.

Fek and all, so what if it was! He would be ready. He leveled his weapon and sprung out into the open. There was no movement up ahead. He moved forward until he came to the top, and here he saw his opponent laid out flat, his blaster lying several meters away.

"I made it! Alpha's made it!" he shouted excitedly into his helmet comm.

But around him the scenario wasn't ending. Shouldn't it be ending if he had won the contest?

Only then did it occur to him.

He did not have the flag.

"Belay that! Belay that!" He warned. "I don't have the flag!"

"Copy that." This curt reply was from CT-5869, and a moment later came the follow-on. "Where is it? Can you get to it?"

"I'll have to go back to where we engaged the enemy."

"Do it. I'll send two more men out to provide more cover."

"Roger."

* * *

Up above on the observation ring, CT-7567 could barely contain his excitement – and his penchant for critiquing the performance of both competing squads.

After the two groups had met and done battle, as CT-7771 had snuck off to make his humiliating bumble, the fighting had slowly pushed closer and closer to Havoc Squad's objective.

But this was where they were all in for a surprise, participants and observers alike.

Having dispatched two more of his defensive team, CT-5869 was now holding the high ground with only himself and three others. Whatever he thought about a member of his offensive team getting to the objective but without the flag was open to speculation, for he gave no appearance, no sign of being anything other than focused on the mission.

When the two troopers he had sent to CT-7771's aid reported that they had spotted the enemy getting very close now, he ordered them to provide only the coordinates of the enemy movement and proceed directly for the objective.

"Find that flag at all costs. Beware of friendly fire: 7771 is looking, as well."

CT-7567 liked this sort of cool composure. He couldn't detect even a tremor of frustration or fear in 5869's voice.

And in the next few minutes, he found out why.

CT-5869's orders to his remaining three defenders were plain. "HUD sync. Voice alert Reta codes if you catch sight of the enemy. On my order, lay down blanket fire. Keep them from moving. I'll do the rest."

It was short-scrit for instructing his men to synchronize the grid layouts in their helmets' headsup displays. Reta code was a collection of single syllable voice codes –named after the language and planet from which they were taken – used to indicate grid blocks in close-range confrontations such as this, without the need to give lengthy coordinates. Blanket fire was just that – laying down a spray of fire meant to keep the enemy from moving or returning fire. It was infantry equivalent of carpet bombing.

As CT-3636 and his team—now at four men total—approached the foot of the rise that marked their objective, it was CT-5869 himself who spotted them entering one of the old and now solid lava flow chutes.

"Getta," he said in code, directing his fellow defenders' attention towards the encroaching enemy. "My single shot, then blanket." He lined up his sights.

" _Wait . . . just a couple more steps . . . that's it."_ He pulled the trigger.

The lead man, CT-7767 went down with a bolt straight through the head – or its trace-tracked equivalent. The flag he had been carrying dropped to the ground at his side.

"Take cover!" CT-3636 shouted as he dove for the meager protection of a condensation-worn depression in the smooth floor of the chute.

Immediately, blaster fire erupted all around him. "Return fire!"

But there was no opportunity to return fire. It became immediately apparent that any attempt to even raise his head would invite death.

Judging from the sound, he estimated the enemy could not be more than twenty meters away, though at an advantageous elevation. If he could lob a grenade at least part of the way, they might get lucky and hit the mark; or, if not, create enough dust and debris for him and his men to get out of their precarious situation.

He removed a grenade from his belt, depressed the handle and removed the pin. "Hit the deck!" he yelled. But as he flung his arm over his head, a searing pain struck him in the wrist and the grenade flew from his hand. He whipped his head around to see it go skittering down the smooth pahoehoe chute behind him – straight towards where his two remaining men were crouching for cover, one on each side of the chute.

The grenade was not going to make it past them . . .

Before he even knew what he was doing, he dove head-long down the chute, landing on top of the grenade just as it detonated. The trace-trackers instantly rendered his simulated death, though without the gory aftermath.

CT-9012 did not hesitate. He recognized the sacrifice the commander had just made. "Come on!" He shouted to CT-1291. "We've got to get that flag and finish the mission!"

CT-1291 was a bit more circumspect. "If we leave cover, we'll get our fekking heads blown off!"

"Then we get our fekking heads blown off! We can't give up when we're this close!"

And then the scenario halted.

The fires died, the lava pools quieted their bubbling. The temperature began to abate and the sky overhead dissipated in billions of twinkling particles.

Within seconds, medical teams were on-hand for the "dead" and "wounded." But as the trace-trackers released their hold, the simulated bodily states also abated.

CT-9012 and CT-1291, at first bemused about the sudden termination of the scenario, quickly recovered their wits and crouched down to help their dazed squad leader onto his hands and knees, where he quickly pulled off his helmet and retched.

"Here, here, out of the way." This came from a medical tech who appeared out of nowhere with a hypo that he injected directly into 3636's carotid artery. "Give it fifteen seconds, and you'll feel a lot better, Commander. That's it . . . take it easy. There you go. Come on, sit. Let me check you out."

"What happened? Is the scenario over?" CT-3636 asked, blinking and wondering why his vision was so blurry.

"You threw yourself on top of a grenade," the med tech replied. "That was instant death."

CT-3636 was incredulous. "I did _what_?"

The med tech gave a sardonic smile. "A selfless act, but a bit too late, because at almost the exact same moment, the other squad was planting their flag."

These words were enough to snap CT-3636 back to his senses. "What?! Are you—they beat us?"

"They sure did," the med tech grinned. He looked to the two remaining members of Havoc Squad. "Report back to the ready room."

"What about the commander?" CT-1291 asked.

"He'll be along shortly. A quick trip to the med-check room, and he'll be right back with the rest of you."

As the two clones left, another clone came down the lava chute.

"He gonna be okay?" It was CT-5869.

"Oh yeah, he'll be fine," came the reply. "A few minutes in recovery, and he'll be good as new. That'll be just enough time for the controllers to program the next scenario, so he'll be back on deck in time to watch all the festivities."

CT-3636 looked up to see a clone wearing the tell-tale red markings of the Coruscant Guard, and a sense of mortification coursed through the commander's veins. He and his squad had been bested by a member of the Coruscant Guard?! A lieutenant, no less?! It was outrageous and humiliating.

"Glad to hear it," the lieutenant said with a satisfied nod. He seemed to be considering saying more, perhaps offering some words directly to the commander, but something made him think better of it. Instead, he turned and headed back to his own ready room.

* * *

"Well, I'll be damned if ole' senator-sitter didn't have the nerves of a stone and the aim of a hawk," CT-9090 remarked with admiration.

"He's definitely a good shot," CT-2025 agreed. "What did you think, 7567?"

"I liked his strategy," came the assessing reply. "He took some chances by not sending more men to take the objective, but it worked. And his final defense . . . that was good. It helped that he apparently is a marksman."

"Guess you gotta be a sure shot to protect those senators and diplomats from all the people who want to kill them," CT-9218 put in. "But I think I could beat him in a target contest."

CT-7567 smiled and put a brotherly hand on his shoulder. "Don't sell him short just because he's in the CG. Sometimes I think it might be easier to face a ship full of battle droids than a room full of politicians."

"Point well-taken, lieutenant," 9218 agreed.

"Hey, look," CT-2025 pointed his chin towards the far end of the platform. "Looks like your roomie's squad is up next."

"And there goes Crimson Squad," CT-390 added. "That's CT-5052's team. Huh, I feel badly for them. Commander Cody's going to mop the floor with them."

CT-7567 gave him a rough elbow. "Let's hope so. If Bravo gets knocked out of the going, we won't get to compete against them."

CT-2025 chuckled. "We've got six weeks to go, 7567. There'll be plenty of opportunities to go head-to-head with Bravo."

CT-7567 gave a charming one-sided grin. "Yeah, but I want to establish the pecking order right from the start. Echo Squad is going to be the best in this class—no, the best that this school has ever seen." A pause. "Cody is just one man. And one man doesn't make a team."

Prescient words.

But not for the reasons he would have liked to believe.


	47. Character Listing for ARC Training

Character Roster for ARC Training

This is broken up by Squad and the Cadre. More names will be added as more characters appear. I don't like to have them all up front, because if I say where they're from or what their role is, it might give away too much. I will also insert names as some of the OCs acquire them. I don't want to give away the names in advance because I like to show how some come to get their names. Not all characters play a big role, but I've included them anyway. I've highlighted the ones who will play larger parts. They are mostly characters from the series.

* * *

 **ARC Cadre**  
Colonel Claw – Commandant OC  
Commander Steed – Training Officer OC (light saber burn over right eye)  
Major Tides – Training Officer OC  
Captain Bullock - B Squad Advisor  
Captain Spicer - E Squad Advisor  
Captain Scarlett - H Squad Advisor

Alpha Squad  
 **Lieutenant Stone (CT-5869): Coruscant Guard (from series)** _ **  
**_ **Unnamed CT-7771: OC**

Bravo Squad  
 **Commander Cody (CT-2224): 212** **th** **Attack Battalion (series)  
** **Captain Snap (CT-5821): 224th Air Assault Battalion (Mudjumpers) OC** _(fast-burner, very capable officer who appreciates opportunity to work alongside Cody)_  
 **Lieutenant Unnamed (CT-8383): pilot OC** _(charming, gritty, eager, optimistic)_  
 **CT-0206: Master Sergeant Unnamed infantry OC** _(large, tough guy; lewd tattoos, loud, forceful)_  
 **CT-0207: Master Sergeant Unnamed infantry OC** _(squeaky clean, maintains original template appearance precisely, calm, quiet, contemplative)_  
 **CT-7931: Petty Officer First Class Unnamed OC** _(quiet but appears to have more to him than he lets on)_  
 **CT-7667: Sergeant Unnamed Army Medic OC** _(a bit full of himself, but keeps his arrogance under good regulation. Puts mission first, but feels for the men he's had to leave behind)_  
 **CT-1200: Specialist Unnamed Field Artillery OC** _(range-finder, steady hand, good eye, lots of guts)_  
 **CT-2876: Shinie Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-7132: Shinie Unnamed OC**

Crimson Squad  
 **Lieutenant Bly (CT-5052): 388** **th** **Extraction Squadon, 34** **th** **Airlift Wing, 4** **th** **Brigade Combat Team (series)** ( _contentious but devoted to his squad mates; seems bitter and angry all the time)_  
 **CT-5211: Major Unnamed Communications Officer, Sector 8 HQs OC** _(cautious, overly analytical and not one to think creatively; but agreeable)_  
 **CT-4445: Clone Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-1944: Clone Unnamed** _OC (Staff Sergeant with 3d Infantry Regiment. Eager, very fit, competitive and perhaps foolhardy)_  
 **CT-1080-1: Clone Unnamed OC** _(fission mechanics and engineer; specialty clone genetically manipulated to be less prone to the effects of fission/ion generators that power Republic warships; humble, likes to follow instead of lead, observational)_  
 **CT-1789: Clone Unnamed OC** _(rank and file but has a good mind for problem-solving)_

Delta Squad  
 **Lieutenant Gree (CT-1004): 7068** **th** **Military Police Squadon (series)** _(pod-mate with Rex as cadets) **  
**_ **CT-3942: Clone Unnamed OC** (an ass, prickish disposition, disagrees with everyone, thinks he knows better)  
 **CT-5572: Clone Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-2169: Clone Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-9111: Clone Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-7096: Shinie Unnamed OC** _(trained as an armaments officer; a bit naïve but good at tactical problem-solving)_

Echo Squad  
 **Lieutenant Rex (CT-7567): 729th Tactical Combat Battalion (series) _  
Lieutenant Colt (CT-2025): (series)_** _(ebullient, very keen sense of brotherhood, well-spoken but generally quiet and observant; room-mate with CT-5052)_  
 **CT-9090: Clone Unnamed OC** _("fuel injector"; likes to be extreme in all he does, so he always appears to be throwing fuel onto the fire)_  
 **CT-390: Clone Unnamed OC** _(scientific and technically oriented; wants to know the "why" of everything)_  
 **CT-8462: Shinie Unnamed OC** _(quiet and seemingly timid; has brown eyes instead of amber)_  
 **CT-8448: Shinie Unnamed OC** _(defers to the more experienced clones, but appears to have a spark of boldness)_  
 **CT-9218: Shinie Unnamed OC** _(alert, amiable, easy-going, game for anything; good pilot in heavies and_ fighters) **CT-1550: Clone Unnamed OC** _(904th Comm Group, code-interceptors, crackers and interpreter; very smart)  
_ **CT-5576: Clone Unnamed OC** _(88th Division Artillery - DIVARTY - walker jockey, devil-may-care attitude due to walker jockeys' short life expectancy, gallows humor, speaks with a strange accent common to walker jockeys)  
_ **CT-1448: Clone Unnamed OC**

Falcon Squad: none listed

Gander Squad:  
CT-1993

Hotel Squad  
 **Commander Wolffe (CT-3636): series** _ **  
**_ **CT-1291 Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-7767 Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-9012 Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-8713 Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-8722 Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-8881 Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-2303 Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-7106 Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-309 Unnamed OC**

 **Misc:** **Captain Stamp (CT-430) (General Skywalker's captain before Rex)**


	48. Chapter 47

_**Dear Reader, I'm just including a few of the main's numbers here.**_

 _ **CT-5869 Stone  
CT-5052 Bly**_

 _ **The other are incidental, but you can look at the my previous chapter, the guide, for help!**_

 _ **Peace,**_

 _ **CS**_

Chapter 47 Petrified Trees and Colloquialisms

 _Gabrielle Maple: "Petrified forest is a lot of dead trees in the desert that have turned to stone."_

 _Alan Squier: So, that was once a tree? Well, perhaps that's what I'm destined to become. An interesting fossil for future study._

From _The Petrified Forest_

* * *

CT-7567 felt his pulse quicken as the new scenario began to form below the observation ring.

"I know this," he said with hushed excitement. "Houtsbul. This was my first battle after coming onto active duty."

He watched as the black obsidian-like terrain rose in shining spikes.

"It looks like glass," CT-2025 commented.

"It felt like it, too," 7567 confirmed. "Slippery as an Alsatian eel. See those little outcroppings that look like weeds or trees? They're really crystalline growths." A wry grin played on his lips. "And they're a lot more durable than they look. Stabbed myself a few times running into them. Grateful for my armor, that's for sure, or it would have been a lot worse."

"This one doesn't look quite as treacherous as the last one," CT-9090 put forth.

"Well, there aren't any fire pots or lava pits – not that I can remember," 7567 replied. "But the bad thing is that if you hit any of those surfaces with blaster fire, it sends the rock up into hundreds of knife-like shards. We lost a lot of men—not to enemy fire—but to collateral damage." He crossed his arms over his chest in smug recollection. "The smoothness of that ground makes it almost impossible to walk on anything that isn't flat. Even trying to grab hold of something to balance yourself or pull yourself up, your hand slips right off." A pause. "After the first couple botched engagements, we got smart and used jetpacks."

"You attacked from the air?"

"Sometimes I think it's the best way to go," CT-7567 replied casually, as if the discussion were purely academic. "I admit I'm a big fan of the jetpacks. I just wish we got to use them more often."

"They're kind of bulky," CT-390 stated.

"And cumbersome," added CT-8462. "They serve their purpose, no doubt. But I think I prefer hoofing it."

"Nothing wrong with that," 7567 nodded. "You have to adapt your strategy to fit the moment. Flexibility is the key to victory."

They continued to comment on the burgeoning scenario for the next twenty minutes, also noticing the arrival of the members of Alpha and Havoc Squads on the observation ring.

CT-3636 was the last to arrive, and he took his place just as the next contest was beginning.

CT-7567 was tempted to go tease him a bit about his moment of sacrifice and his team's subsequent loss; but he decided against it. The scenario was about to begin, and observing Cody was something that needed to be carried out in the company of his own squad mates. He felt, already, that he could speak freely with them, say whatever was on his mind—flattering or unflattering—and use this informal critique of his room-mate's performance as way of bonding with them.

"I'd love to hear what they're being told in the intel brief," CT-2025 commented. He beamed at 7567. "You should be down there to give them some advice."

"Eh, I'm sure they've got guys with more experience than I have," 7567 replied. "But I agree that it would be interesting to be a fly on the wall."

* * *

" . . . and the locals aren't very fond of off-worlders." Captain Bullock was Bravo Squad's advisor, and if he had any qualms about giving a fairly renowned commander orders, he did a creditable job of concealing it. "I strongly suggest you avoid them to the greatest degree possible."

Cody tilted his head to one side. "What is the likelihood we'll encounter any?"

"Anything is possible."

To Cody, that answer indicated it was very likely. He looked at the holographic image once again of the Gley'mar – the predominant species of the planet. Humanoid, though barely. They more resembled the crystal that comprised the planet's surface than they did a flesh-and-blood being. Tall, gangly, multi-appendaged, no discernible facial features. Black and smooth just like the terrain.

"Any more questions?"

Cody deferred to the squad commander for this rotation, CT-5821: a confident, fast-burning captain from the 224th Airborne Assault Battalion – a unit otherwise known as Mudjumpers. The 224th had a reputation for getting down and dirty, slogging their way through the worst of conditions, and snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. After the 501st and the 212th, they were one of the most prestigious and revered units in the Grand Army of the Republic.

CT-5821 was a company commander, and he, too, had a nickname.

Snap.

Captain Snap.

No one had inquired yet how he had come to it; after all, there was plenty of time for stories and secrets to be told. Six weeks . . .

"No, no more questions, Sir," he replied.

"Then you have 15 minutes to plan your strategy."

Captain Snap felt neither intimidated nor offended by Cody's presence. In fact, quite the opposite. He was very glad that the commander was on his team and that his wisdom and experience was there for the taking. Snap knew that he, too, had a wealth of knowledge to share when it came to conducting battle; and he felt that between him and Cody, they could come up with a creditable plan.

The rest of the team had nowhere near their rank or experience. There was one lieutenant, CT-8338, who had both the charm and the grit associated with being a fly-boy; but as a pilot, he had little to bring to the table from a ground-war perspective. Still, he was eager and optimistic – always better than reluctant and dour. There were two senior non-commissioned officers (NCOs), Master Sergeant CT-0206, who would have made an ideal drill sergeant, except for his highly non-conformist appearance with half his exposed skin covered with tattoos of exotic women in all manner of provocative poses. And that was only what could be seen from the neck up. There was little doubt among his squad mates that there were other writhing beauties hidden beneath the plates of armor. The other senior NCO was CT-0207, and he was a batcher and battalion mate of CT-0206. They were as close as two men could be, and yet they were nothing alike. CT-0207 was squeaky clean, sporting the original template in precise replication. He was calm, quiet, seemed to be contemplative; whereas 0206 was loud, forceful, and definitely had a way of making himself known.

After them were two junior NCOs, one from the Republic Navy, Petty Officer First Class CT-7931. He appeared to be a quiet type, but that could have been out of deference to the rank of his squad mates. Both Cody and Snap privately had the inkling that there was much more to be said of 7931 than he was letting on. The other was another ground-pounder but with a twist: CT-7667 was a medic. And like most medics, he was a bit full of himself. Training to be a field medic was one of the most difficult tasks in the clone ranks. And there was a great distinction between the basic field first-aid that all clones learned versus the medical skills that a field medic was required to master. Still, it wasn't so much that the skills were difficult to acquire; it was the gruesome fact that not all lives carried the same weight when it came to battlefield injuries. Clone medics were taught—with very little sense of irony—that, while clones were valuable and crucial to war the effort, there was little sense or practicality in trying to save the life of a clone who could not return to the battle in a meaningful capacity.

In other words, a clone was to be saved only if the medic determined there on the spot, often in the heat of battle, that he could be repaired to the point where he could continue to make a contribution to the war effort. For some clones, it was simply part of the duties of being a medic. For others, they felt that power in their hands—the power to decide who was worth saving and who wasn't—and it swelled their heads and sense of self-importance. Still, for others, it was a grueling and wicked responsibility that tested their sanity and often drove to premature burnout.

CT-7667 was a bit of each. He knew his job very well, and he was always happy to save a life when he could. He had a vast reservoir of arrogance, but he generally kept it under good regulation. He'd already had to make too many life-or-death decisions than he'd ever have wanted; but it was part of his job. It was a grave responsibility; but for 7667, it was not about moral implications. It was about following his training and making the hard call. He'd had to choose death for three of his batchers already. One had been his squad mate. He prided himself on always being able to put the mission first and exercising the protocols for such determinations. He knew not all medics could do that.

Of the remaining three members of Bravo Squad, one wore the rank of specialist. CT-1200 was an artilleryman, a range-finder with a steady hand, a good eye, and a lot of guts under pressure.

That left the two newly minted privates: CT-2876 and CT-7132. They had come highly recommended from basic training, and both considered themselves fortunate to be assigned to the same squad with Commander Cody.

"I have no experience on Houtsbul," Captain Snap announced. "Have any of you ever been there?"

No one had.

"Well, it seems to me, from what Captain Bullock said about the natives, that we can expect to run into them. They won't make this a cake-walk," Snap surmised. "There aren't nearly as many obstacles in the terrain of this scenario as there were in the last one, so there must be obstacles that they'll introduce once the scenario begins."

"Agreed," Cody nodded. "I think we can expect it."

Fifteen minutes later, they entered the chute.

The warning light turned green, and Bravo Squad stepped into the scenario.

And promptly went sliding.

"Holy Merseck!" CT-7667 exclaimed, using the vernacular curse that was common use among the medics, Merseck being a much sought-after painkiller with the dubious side effects of altered states of mind. He reached out to steady himself by grasping one of the smooth outcroppings, but his hand slipped free immediately, and he slid to his knees.

Captain Snap reached out and helped him back to his feet, while barely maintaining his own.

"They said it was slick, but they didn't say it was going to be like walking on oil," Snap remarked. "Activate gravs."

They all tapped their wrist pads, activating the gravs, only to discover that this made them slide even more.

"Damn! Deactivate," Snap grumbled. "That just makes it worse."

"It isn't the gravity that's causing the problem," CT-0206 stated. "It's the surface itself. It's so smooth, there's no grip. Increasing the gravity is just pressing down even more on a surface with no purchase."

"I guess this means we're going to have to move very slowly and carefully," Snap said, the frustration clear in his voice.

"Not necessarily." This from CT-7931. He reached down to his utility belt and withdrew the grappling hook.

The others immediately caught onto what he had in mind.

"That's a great idea," Snap said, the frustration fully given way to excitement and certitude. "Fix grappling hooks."

Cody hesitated. "We should do a test shot first, make sure those spikes are strong enough to hold."

Snap accepted this advice and nodded once to CT-1200, the artilleryman with a penchant for hitting bulls-eyes.

CT-1200 aimed for a broad-based spike, adjusted the ion charger on his blaster, and fired with just enough forward propulsion to drop the grappling hook just beyond the spike where it skittered across the crystalline ground. He drew back on the wire until the hook caught, then looked to his squad leader for permission.

Captain Snap nodded.

CT-1200 pressed the retraction lever on his blaster, and as the grappling line reeled in, he slid easily across the ground.

"That looks like the way to do it, chaps," Snap said.

CT-0206 and 0207 followed, each picking out their own targets to act as anchors.

Commander Cody stood back a bit. Even with his helmet on, the others could tell he was in observational mode, not completely sold on the idea.

It wasn't until CT-2876 took his shot that the commander's hesitation seemed to have some plausible basis. CT-2876 slipped ever so slightly as he fired, but that small move was just enough to send his grappling hook a couple degrees wide. Its impact sent the spike bursting into thousands upon thousands of shards. The three troopers already on the other side cringed away from the blast, but they were all hit, though not mortally. The trace trackers simulated the appearance of blood to go along with the pain of the fabricated injuries where the shards had pierced the exposed parts of the body gloves.

Captain Snap turned to CT-7667. "Get over there!"

But as 7667 raised his weapon and took aim, Cody put up his hand on the barrel and drew the blaster back down. He addressed his words, however, to Snap. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. One slip, one bad shot, and we risk another explosion and more injuries."

"Our only other option is to walk across—or crawl," Snap replied. "That's going to be slow progress towards our objective." And pause. "And those men need a medic now."

"Our steadiest hand should be taking the shots," Cody said. "Who would that be?"

"I think that would have been 1200, and he's on the other side now – and injured. You're a good shot, Commander." Snap turned and took CT-7931's blaster from his hands and put it into Cody's. "Do it."

Cody took the weapon.

And hesitated.

* * *

Above on the observation platform, CT-7567 was nearly beside himself.

"What are you waiting for?! One bad shot, and you've got to ponder every possibility?! It was a good idea! I wish we'd thought of it when I was on Houtsbul! Stop being so . . . overly cautious!"

CT-2025 placed a hand on 7567's shoulder. "Take it easy," he said with an amused smile. "You wanted to see him in action. Just watch and try not to pop a blood vessel."

"Of all things . . . you can't be hesitant on the battlefield," CT-7567 continued. "For crying out loud, he'll probably want to call a working group meeting and see what the best way is to get across fifty meters!"

"He's a highly successful field commander," CT-2025 reminded him. "I imagine he knows his stuff."

"I'm sure he does," CT-7567 agreed. "But 5821 should just make the call. He's in command, it's just a training scenario. If they wait for Commander Cody to make a decision, they'll be in there all day."

"The scenarios only last an hour," CT-390 pointed out. "And at the rate both teams are going, I don't think they'll ever come within visual contact of each other." He motioned towards the screens that were monitoring Crimson Squad under the leadership of CT-5052.

Here, CT-7567 started to laugh. "What are they doing? Ice-skating?"

"It looks that way," 2025 concurred. "And not doing a very good job at it."

"Well, they're making more progress than Cody's team," 7567 chirped, sounding competitively happy, but then amending his glee. "But if Crimson beats Bravo, we won't get to go up against Cody."

"Uh-oh . . . trouble," CT-9090 stated, pointing towards one of the screens. "What the hell are those?"

An expression of unsavory anticipation glinted in CT-7567's eye. "Those are the indigenous population, the Gley'mar. Oh, I think things are about to get real ugly real fast."

"Have you ever run up against them?"

This question came, not from any member of Echo Squad, but from none other than the winner of previous match, CT-5869. He had been slowly moving along the railing, watching the screens as well as the action below. Now, he stood amidst the members of Echo Squad, and no one had even noticed his approach.

CT-7567 smiled. "My first battle after coming onto active duty. We had not only the Separatists to contend with, but the Gley'mar, as well," he said proudly. "They weren't exactly the most conventional enemy. They weren't really an enemy at all. They just didn't want us on their world. I felt kind of bad that they got drawn into the fighting, to be honest." A pause. "By the way, nice job against Havoc Squad."

CT-5869 gave a one-sided shrug of concession. "It was mostly luck. CT-3636 is a clever guy. I didn't expect to defeat him. He has a reputation."

"It wasn't luck at all, brother," 7567 deferred. "I watched the plan you put into place. I saw how much a crack sharp-shooter you are. You kept something in reserve, and it worked."

CT-5869 chuckled. "I hadn't planned on my man getting all the way and forgetting the flag." He focused his attention back on the scenario below. "I'll bet Commander Cody doesn't make that kind of mistake."

"Hmph! Right now, it looks like he's going nowhere fast," CT-7567 replied. "Look, they're _still_ discussing the best way to proceed! Unbelievable! And he's got injured men bleeding all over the place!" He leaned on his hands over the railing. "Oh, I would have loved to get this scenario!"

"So, those aliens . . . are they lethal?" CT-5869 asked.

"That they are," came the reply. "And in a very strange way. I'd like to see how the trace-trackers simulate it."

"What do they do?"

CT-7567 smiled broadly and leaned further out in excitement as the Gley'mar—at least four of them—drew nearer to Bravo's location, completely undetected. "Just watch."

* * *

"Commander, I appreciate your caution, but we can't stay here," Captain Snap said. "We've got to reach our objective, and we've got to get help over to our injured men. We're up against the clock here."

Cody nodded. "You're the squad leader. Although I don't think grappling hooks are the best idea, if it's what you want to go with, I'm behind you."

"You're still our best shot," Snap reminded him. "Proceed."

For Cody, it was a peculiar situation to be under the command of anyone but General Kenobi. On occasion, the Resolute Battle Group Commander, Admiral Yularen, had given him orders. General Skywalker had also been in charge over him on a number of missions. But to have a fellow clone—and one that ranked beneath him—giving orders, even in a training environment, was going to take a bit of getting used to.

Still, Cody was not a prideful man, nor was he the type who always had to be in charge. In fact, he rather viewed his presence at ARC school just as much as an opportunity to mentor some of the younger and less experienced clones as a crucible for perfecting and refining his own skills.

If he tended to the cautious side, then so be it. He liked to weigh all the possibilities, gain as much background and knowledge as possible, and then—and only then—make a decision. He knew what happened when haste carried the day: men died needlessly, battles that were winnable were lost, and the moment of that decision and all its ghastly aftermath were forever etched into that time and space. Perhaps that was where the issue of pride came in: he did not want to be forever associated with great failures, historic defeats, and tremendous loss of life. Yes, that might be pride.

But it just might also have been the degree of compassion and empathy he had developed even as a cadet. Cody—back when he was only known as CT-2224—had always been one step ahead, one cut above, and . . . well, leagues beyond the emotional maturity of his brothers. He'd known from the earliest days of his budding intellect that he wanted nothing more than to be the ideal soldier in service to a Republic whose cause was noble and whose leaders were just. He wanted to be the officer his commanders trusted; the bulwark his fellow clones turned to for support; the smartest, brightest, and most level-headed clone ever to come from the halls of Kamino.

And he'd worked hard to gain the confidence of his leaders and his troops. Part of that effort was a constant awareness of the mood and temperament of the men. He kept an ear to the ground and was not averse to listening to scuttlebutt—it often kept him well-informed. On top of everything, he trusted his own judgment.

And his judgment now was telling him that Captain Snap was a good officer. As squad leader, he needed no encouragement, no affirmation that his decisions were sound. All he needed was support. And Cody was ready to offer that support.

He raised the blaster and fired the grappling hook towards a much narrower spike, skimming just past it, and then reeling in until the claw caught. He handed the weapon back to CT-7931, who activated the retraction and began sliding gracelessly across the ground.

As he drew closer, suddenly the spike seemed to break into pieces. No, not break . . . _branch._ Crystalline arms jutted out like sharpened daggers. The base of the spike parted into numerous multi-jointed legs. It was as if a stalagmite had sprung to life and loosed itself from its mooring.

"Fek and all . . . " CT-2876 said under his breath.

"Release! Release!" Captain Snap shouted, his voice distorted over the helmet comm. "CT-7931, release!"

CT-7931 jettisoned the cable, but the momentum continued to propel his movement across the glass-like ground.

The rest of the squad raised their weapons, even those who were injured.

"Fire!" Captain Snap ordered.

"No! If we shoot, we'll send glass flying everywhere!" Cody protested.

"Fire!" Captain Snap repeated. They were his last words as a narrow stream of liquid obsidian came darting in from behind, striking him in the middle of the back. The liquid coursed over him, hardening into crystals.

Encasing him like a glass statue.

* * *

"Hraka!" CT-5869 blew out the exclamation. "Oh, kriffing Fels of Pershon . . . "

It was yet another colloquial curse he had picked up during escort duty to the far-flung planets of senatorial visits. He continued, "They're going to get taken down and it's not even ten minutes into the scenario."

"I wouldn't count them out so fast," CT-7567 warned, though the shadow of a smile crept into his features. "I don't think my room-mate would tolerate such a humiliation."

"What is that? Did they turn him into glass?" CT-2025 asked.

"Exactly," 7567 replied. "Well, a simulation of it."

"So, he's dead," CT-9090 surmised.

"He's dead," 7567 confirmed.

CT-5869 watched the chaos below. "Did you run up against these creatures when you were there?"

"Only once," came the reply. "Once was all it took for our commander to realize that our best bet was to avoid them to the greatest degree possible." His focus was solely on Commander Cody. "That was another reason we went with jetpacks. I wonder if CT-2224 will come up with the same thought." A pause. "Though it doesn't look like he'll have the option. I don't think they have access to any."

"Jetpacks?" This from CT-5869. "I like that idea."

"I don't think I'd agree to go into any of these scenarios without one," CT-7567 stated.

"Check it out, CT-390 interjected. "Bravo's getting wiped out. There's only two of them left. They hadn't even formed a strategy yet." A chuckle. "They hadn't even gotten into defensive positions."

"The commander's still on his feet . . . and that one there – he's wearing wings . . . must be a pilot."

"Heh-heh . . . _don't shoot_ went pretty quickly to _blow everything to smithereens_."

"Commander Cody _is_ a good shot. I wouldn't want to face off against him."

"But I think he's going to get his ass handed to him on this one."

"You never know."

CT-7567 listened to the commentary with muted interest, even though it was very intriguing. The competitive side of his nature—which was the greater part—took some perverse satisfaction at his room-mate's current dilemma. Not that he wanted to see Cody fail – certainly not. But he did want to know that even the best among them could be caught out short.

Of course, he never considered that he himself might end up in similar circumstances.

* * *

CT-5052 may not have been squad leader, but he knew a FUBAR when he saw one. FUBAR was the gentle way of describing a scenario that was "fekked up beyond all recognition."

The intelligence briefing had been woefully vague and insufficient for what they were facing. The idea of a _slippery_ surface seemed now to be no more than a dastardly euphemism for the terrain on which they found themselves.

The idea of skating, such as it was, was only partly useful, for their shoes could gain no traction against the perfectly smooth ground. What might have been graceful on ice with proper equipment was, in fact, reduced to a flailing, bobbling fun house act that might have been humorous, were this not meant to be a battle competition.

" _If we'd known it was going to be like this, we could have asked for jetpacks,"_ he grumbled in the silence of his own mind. _"But we have no choice now. We're just going to have to find a way to get across."_

The Crimson Squad leader was CT-5211, an experienced major – or as experienced as any of them could be in a war that was four months old. He was a communications officer with Sector 8 Headquarters, but he had seen a good deal of front-line activity in his capacity as an advisor on battlefield systems compatibility. He might be a bit on the cautious side, overly analytical, and prone to thinking every problem could be solved if approached from a practical standpoint. In point, he was a lot like Cody, which might be why the cadre had pitted them against each other.

But CT-5052 found him agreeable enough and was determined to support him as best he could. After all, CT-5211 wasn't like _them_. He wasn't a fire-breathing, gung-ho warrior with some ridiculous idea of dying a glorious death for the cause of the Republic. It was unlikely he would ever think of wasting his own life just to add a few more days to the lives of uncaring and selfish citizens who knew little about gratitude and even less about the sacrifice being made for them . . .

No, CT-5211 wasn't that kind of hero.

Hero.

CT-5052 had come to hate that word and everything associated with it.

" _Fek . . . they're not heroes. They never were."_

"Heads up!" came CT-5211's voice over the helmet comms.

A second later, another squad mate, CT-4445, came whizzing past on his back side, continuing on until he bumped up against a crystal spire, and here he got to his feet with extreme care. "That worked great!"

CT-5052 turned to see what method was now being employed.

Two Crimson squad mates had set their stances wide, back feet wedged against a wall of glass behind them. Using this to balance and anchor themselves, they had another trooper sit down between them, took hold of his arms, and using nothing but their own strength, propelled him across the floor like a shuttle.

" _Hm, not a bad idea,"_ CT-5052 admitted internally. _"But it's going to take forever. There has to be a quicker way."_

A stream of liquid glass struck the ground next to him.

He skittered about helplessly on the surface and craned his head back over his shoulder.

A creature like a petrified tree was stalking towards him.


	49. Chapter 48

_**Dear Reader, This is just a short chapter but it has two parts in it that I really like. First is the chapter quote by Fulton Sheen. I just think this idea is so lovely and so very true. And I like to apply it to the relationship between Rex and Cody. Which leads me to my second "like" in this chapter: the very brief interlude that explains the cadre's "roommate" decision-making process. I think you'll be able to see the correlation between the chapter quote and the desired outcome of the roommate decision. Who's the sun and who's the one upon which it shines? I'll leave that for each reader to decide on their own as the story continues! ;-) Peace, CS**_

Chapter 48 Vibration Versus Vibration

" _The sun which warms the plant can under other conditions also wither it. The rain which nourishes the flower can under other conditions rot it. The same sun shines upon mud that shines upon wax. It hardens the mud but softens the wax. The difference is not in the sun, but in that upon which it shines."_

The Seven Capital Sins by Bishop Fulton Sheen

* * *

CT-5052 drew his blaster and fired towards the creature, shattering it into thousands of pieces. He was too far away to be hit by any of the shards, and no one else had been near the creature.

Thankfully.

For he could see right away the hazard wrought by blaster fire against these beings. But he had no time to consider it, for another streak of liquid glass streaked past him from behind. He whirled around to see yet another creature approaching from the opposite direction.

This time he set his weapon for stun, only to discover that the setting had no impact whatsoever. The creature kept advancing, spewing forth the tendrils of liquescent death, petrifying, in short order, three of his squad mates – including his squad leader, CT-5211.

"Take cover!" he shouted, knowing that getting to cover was a difficult task on this surface. "Take cover and blast them! Watch out for the shards!"

The remainder of Crimson Squad scrambled as best they could, but only two of them were able to get out of the open and into relatively safe confines. But they all had their blasters firing away as more creatures appeared. Glass and crystalline flecks were flying everywhere, and were it not for their armor, the clones would have been sliced to pieces. Even so, the injuries began mounting.

By the time the last of the creatures had been felled, there were only five members of Crimson Squad left standing. CT-5052 considered, rather callously, that such losses weren't so bad given what they'd just been through.

He slipped into the role of leader right away, without any discussion, without any regard for the others' ranks. True, he was the only officer still alive, but at ARC training rank was not supposed to play a part in how the men dealt with each other or with the scenarios. Still, it was not surprising that men who had been so conditioned to honor and respect rank should continue to do just that even when operating under contrived rank-free parameters.

CT-5052 was a lieutenant, he was used to being in charge of a platoon. It came naturally to him to step into the vacated squad leader position.

He took stock of whom he had left.

CT-1944, a junior NCO from 3d Infantry Regiment, one of those units stuck in the outer rim, fighting battles that no one ever cared about for they were without the glamor of the battles closer in towards Coruscant and its center-of-the-galaxy designation and mindset. CT-1944 was eager, amazingly fit even for a clone, and already showing himself to be extremely competitive, even to the point where CT-5052 imagined he was perfectly capable of foolhardiness in the pursuit of victory.

CT-1080-1, part of a specialty batch that had been bred solely for the purpose of conducting fission mechanics and engineering. These clones had been genetically manipulated to give them a higher resistance to the mutation effects of the ion and fission generators used to power the vast majority of Republic warships. As such, they were able to get into much closer and more prolonged proximity with equipment and reactors than their non-enhanced brothers, thus making them outstanding engineers and generator repairmen. Of course, it cost considerably more to manufacture such a clone, and so their numbers were limited – relatively speaking. Only 18,000 had been produced thus far, though more were on the way.

CT-1080-1 might have been a special creation, but he didn't act like it. He was humble to a fault, happy to follow someone else's lead, and not the type to flaunt his engineering brilliance in front of others. He'd kept a level head when the creatures had attacked, and maybe he was too unfamiliar with combat to know enough to be scared, because he appeared to respond to the attack as if he were merely observing facts and then reacting to them. Then again, maybe he'd seen more battle than CT-5052 was giving him credit for.

Lastly, there was CT-1789. CT-5052 hadn't really gotten to know anything about him yet. He was one of those clones that just blended in with the background. Nothing special about him, except for the fact that of the 10 who had started the scenario, he was one of only four left standing.

"Everyone, gather 'round me," CT-5052 ordered. It took fully three minutes for them to scoot, slide, and slither their way to him. CT-1080-1 scooped up the flag on his way.

"We've got to find a way to move faster over this surface," 5052 stated the obvious. "There may be more of those creatures, and if we can't find a way to outrun them, we'll never get to our objective."

"Lieutenant, I've been scanning through the planetary databanks in my HUD ever since those creatures showed up. They're called the Gley'mar—" CT-1789 began.

"Funny how our advisor forgot to mention them," CT-5052 snarled.

"But I think I may have found something," 1789 went on. "I checked in the codex to see if they have a language. And they do."

"Go on."

"It's ultra-high frequency sub-vibrations." A pause. "Our communication equipment can mimic those sounds, and we can use our wrist comms to make it audible."

"It didn't look like those things wanted to have a conversation," CT-1080-1 put forth. "It looked like they wanted to kill us."

"The database doesn't ascribe violence to them," CT-1789 insisted. "They're just very protective of their world and don't want outsiders here. If we can convince them that we just want to get to the objective so we can leave, they might be willing to help us."

"After we just killed some of their . . . _people_ ," CT-1080-1 struggled to find the right word.

"I think it might be worth a try." CT-1789 paused with meaningful silence before adding, "And we've seen that they can walk on this surface with no problem. They might even be willing to help us to the objective."

"What, you mean like, carry us?" CT-1080-1 was incredulous.

"Or slide us along behind them." CT-1789 waited for CT-5052's decision.

After a few seconds, 5052 nodded his head slowly. "Try to communicate with them."

* * *

CT-7567 felt his shoulders fall.

There was no way Commander Cody and the one remaining member of Bravo Squad—the pilot—were going to win this.

The two had managed to take cover behind a formidable spire of obsidian, but they were pinned down as the Gley'mar approached. Meanwhile, over on the other side, projected on the screens, Crimson Squad's survivors seemed not only to have regrouped but to have put a plan in place – albeit, a shaky plan with little chance of success.

That is, until one of the crystalline creatures approached the Crimson Squad members in what appeared to be a détente of sorts.

"I will not believe it," CT-7567 flat out refused. "There is no way the Gley'mar would agree to . . . oh, this would never happen!"

CT-2025 chuckled. "Did you try it when you were there?"

CT-7567 scowled. "It never occurred to us to try."

"Looks like it might be a good idea." This from CT-5869.

"Damn . . . I'm not going to get to go up against Cody," CT-7567 grumped. "I can't believe he's going to lose this matchup."

"It's not over yet, and hey, weren't you the one who was just saying not to count him out too soon?" CT-9090 pointed out.

CT-7567 simpered. "Yeah, that was me. Maybe his prowess is overrated."

"By the Force, you're just bucking for a chance to show him up, aren't you?" CT-2025 charged with a knowing grin.

"He's supposed to be the best," came the reply, spoken in precise syllables. "I just want to see if I can beat the best." But as he watched Commander Cody in the scenario below him, he conceded that today would not afford him that opportunity.

* * *

Cody checked the chronometer in his HUD.

" _Damn, we have less than thirty minutes . . . "_

"CT-8383, see if you can pull up any background on these creatures. We can't keep blasting them one-by-one. They just keep coming," he ordered.

"Checking," came the curt reply. Less than a minute later, he announced, "I have their specs pulled up. What should I be looking for?"

"Anything that will stop them." He continued firing.

Nearly two minutes passed, then suddenly, 8383 spoke out excitedly. "I think I've got something! I ran a composite analysis of their structure. They're 100 percent sanglingua crystal. That means, if we can produce the right sound frequency for a sustained period, they'll break apart."

"How do we do that?"

"I can—I can tweak the modal synth in the helmet until I get the right frequency," 8383 replied. "And then we can use the broadcast mode."

Beneath the helmet, Cody allowed a grin of surprise at the ingeniousness of his companion. "I thought you were a pilot."

CT-8383 replied cheekily, "Every good pilot knows more than just how to fly."

"Roger that," Cody agreed. "Do it. And do it fast."

* * *

"This was a good idea, CT-1789." CT-5052 was not much for giving compliments, but he knew when such an expression was appropriate.

The _outreach_ , such as it was, to the Gley'mar had been a resounding success. So much so that CT-5052 wondered if that part of the scenario was, in fact, realistic; or had the controllers simply decided to toss Crimson Squad the proverbial bone. One of the creatures had agreed to convey the remainder of Crimson Squad to their objective, and now the four survivors formed an awkward sort of gaggle, trailing behind the creature as it stalked across the surface, unhampered by the smoothness.

CT-1944 had looped the strap on his weapon around one of the creature's many arms – if that's what they were – and the others held onto 1944 like a line of whipping ice skaters, but without the speed and without the skates.

"What do you think Bravo's doing?" CT-1080-1 asked.

"I'm trying _not_ to think about it," replied CT-5052. "How the hell did we get pitted against Commander Cody's Squad?"

After a few seconds of silence, CT-1944 spoke up tentatively. "CT-5052, I think this creature could probably move a lot faster if he were just hauling one of us. Maybe you should take the flag and go on ahead with him."

"Not a chance," 5052 replied immediately and with vehemence. "We stick together. No one gets left behind. No heroes here."

CT-1944 gave a small laugh. "Huh! I thought being a hero was what it's all about."

"Maybe for some," CT-5052 replied. His mind's eye turned for the briefest moment to a rank, steaming jungle . . .

 _Where were they? Fek and all, where were they? The enemy was getting closer._

 _Don't wait for us! Don't wait for us!_

He shook himself free of the recollection. This was no time to be dredging up ghosts and the anger and regret that came with them.

"What—what's happening?"

CT-1789 felt the vibration just as the others did.

"Damn!" CT-1944 raised his hand to his helmeted ears by instinct; then recognizing that would do no good, he fumbled on his wristband in an attempt to turn off the helmet comm and the ghastly sound that was now shredding his eardrums.

"Fek, what is that!?" 5052 ground out. "Is that this creature making that sound?"

"I don't—I don't think so! I don't know! It's stopped moving," CT-1789 cried, pulling his helmet off and covering his ears with his hands.

"It's going to blow!" CT-1944 warned. "Put your helmet back on! Everyone, try to move away—kriffing—basting fek! The spires are breaking! The ground is—"

As he spoke, a long fissure opened in the ground beneath him. He was gone before anyone could do anything, and the creature with him.

"This whole place is coming apart!" CT-1080-1 yelled.

CT-5052 sneered beneath his helmet. "I knew it was too good to be true. Now, we're screwed." But as he looked around and saw the entire place coming down, his last thought was whether Cody's team was having any greater luck. It seemed no one could possibly succeed in this environment.

* * *

"It's working!" Cody shouted over the dreadful screeching sound. "Look, they're slowing down! They're stopping!"

But in the next instance, his relief and hope turned to doubt and worry.

The spires were beginning to shake and vibrate. The very ground beneath him felt as if it were shimmying.

"What the hell?" He looked down at the ground, taking a few random steps as if moving might change or eliminate what he was feeling. "Is this—is that sound causing this?"

"I think so, yes, the whole place is made of the same stuff the creatures are—"

Cody looked back desperately at the creatures. They might be stopped in their tracks, but they were still intact. Meanwhile, everything else was falling apart.

The commander was torn. If he stopped the frequency too soon, the Gley'Mar would not be destroyed and would continue their attack. On the other hand, if he let it go on too long, the whole place might crumble around him and CT-8383.

"Should I stop transmitting, Commander?!" 8383 shouted.

After a few seconds' hesitation, Cody replied, "Not just yet! Give it a few more seconds! If we don't destroy them now, we—"

His voice cut off as the spire behind which they were hiding exploded, cracking the ground beneath them.

Everyone and everything went plunging downward as a cloud of fine, pulverized crystal dust billowed upwards.

* * *

"Hraka . . . " CT-7567 breathed, his eyes wide and staring. As the dust cleared below him and no movement was detected in the rubble, he set his jaw and took off towards the nearest stairway to the lower level. He was too impatient to wait for a lift, and he half-jumped, half-slid down the banister in two bounds. Rounding the corner at the bottom, he realized he had no idea where to go; but such small details never stopped CT-7567 from taking action. He'd seen where the squads had entered the platform at opposite ends, and he headed towards what he thought must be the entrance through which Bravo Squad had come.

Bursting through one door, he came upon a small group of clones – ARC cadre.

"Something I can do you for you, trainee?" One of them asked, stepping forward.

"I need to get in there," he said, clearly finding nothing ludicrous in his demand.

"No one's authorized on the platform except for those involved in the scenario," came the cool reply. "Besides, this scenario is over. The medics will be going in now."

"I know it's over," CT-7567 replied rather testily. "I was watching. That was my roommate who just got crushed in there."

"No one got crushed, Lieutenant." This came from another man, a captain – and from the dart design on his pauldron, a squad advisor. "I'm Captain Bullock. I can assure you, your roommate will be fine."

"You can't simulate falling and getting crushed by all that debris—" 7567 began, but Bullock cut him off.

"Yes, we can; and we do. We do it all the time. More times than I can count. The scenario is designed to be realistic, but it's also highly controlled. Commander Cody will be fine." With a degree of curiosity, he eyed the brash young lieutenant standing so defiantly before him. "I didn't realize what good friends you two were." The way he said the words made it clear that, even now, he suspected no friendship between the two; that he might, in fact, have expected quite the opposite from two so diametrically opposed men.

The cadre had not put CT-7567 and Commander Cody together by accident when making room assignments.

A conscious decision had been made to put the calm, calculating commander with the indefatigable piston of a lieutenant. Thoughtful with impetuous. Organized with haphazard. Planned with spontaneous. Reserved with ebullience. Success with success, no matter how different the approaches.

While it was already clear that Commander Cody was going to be one of the greatest clone officers the GAR had ever known, it was also equally clear that CT-7567 was a star-in-the-making, an officer who combined a brilliant strategic and tactical mind with the winning qualities of leadership and charisma, tinged with just enough bravado to make him daring, just enough foolishness to make others take warmly to him.

What the cadre was hoping for, what they had so carefully planned was that the two clone officers would pass on their best traits to each other. From the commander to the lieutenant: patience, self-control, and well . . . perhaps a bit less impetuosity. From the lieutenant to the commander: willingness to take the occasional risk, a more creative approach to winning battles, and the uncanny ability to light the fire in his followers.

All things considered, it would be an even exchange.

If things went as hoped. And that was never a sure thing.

"I've known him less than a day," CT-7567 said impatiently. "But he _is_ my room-mate. And my brother."

Captain Bullock regarded him with a curious expression. "Brother? Well, that's an interesting way to put it."

"I consider all of you my brothers," 7567 replied. "Not just . . . products of the same template." He scowled that he should even have to explain such a thing when there was a much more important matter at hand. "And as a brother and a room-mate, I need to make sure Commander Cody is alright."

"Like I said, the commander will be fine—"

"Where can I go to see him?"

Bullock gave an indulgent smile, but one that clearly indicated he was reaching his limit of accommodation. "I imagine he'll be in the medical bay in a minute or so, getting checked over. But that's not where you're going. Your squad is up next. You can wait right here until the rest of your squad comes down."

CT-7567 stared hard at the captain for a moment, seesawing between whether to persist or to trust the captain's word. At length, he chose the latter. He gave a single, gruff nod and turned away to hide not only his anger, but also the fact that he'd been refused. It was not something he was used to.

"And lieutenant . . . "

CT-7567 looked back over his shoulder.

"I haven't dismissed you yet."

CT-7567 turned and came to crisp attention. "Permission to be dismissed, Sir?"

Bullock inclined his head to one side. "Dismissed." A pause. "Wait here, and don't go anywhere."

As the captain made to depart, CT-7567 heard him tell one of the technicians, "I'll be in the med bay."

" _You're damned right. That's where you should be,"_ 7567 affirmed silently. And even though it made no sense, he felt better for thinking it.

* * *

"By the Force . . . what the hell happened up there?" Cody reached a hand towards his head, but a medic—a clone medic—gently pressed his arm back down to his side.

"Just lie still, Commander. I only need a few more minutes," the medic instructed.

"I'll tell you what happened."

Cody turned his head to see CT-5052 on the examination table next to him. From the way he sat with his legs dangling over the side of the table, it appeared that he had cleared and was about to head back up to the observation ring.

CT-5052 continued speaking. "You and your team brought the whole place down. That was some great idea you had." His voice bordered between earnest praise and sarcasm.

"Is that what happened? Hmph! Well, I can't take credit for it," Cody replied. "CT-8383 came up with it." A chuckle. "Who'd think a pilot would be the one to figure out something like that."

"To figure out how to get us all killed? If that were real-world, we'd all be dead," CT-5052 pointed out.

"Yeah, I guess so."

After a few seconds of silence, CT-5052 grudgingly admitted, "But it was still a good idea. Ours was better, though."

"What was your idea?" Cody asked.

"We figured out how to communicate with the Gley'Mar, and one of them was taking us to the objective."

"Huh, that's clever." The commander drew in a deep breath, feeling a soreness in his right side. "Do I have broken ribs?" he asked the medic.

"No, just some minor bruising," came the reply. "Not the sort of thing we'd even treat. It'll feel fine in a day or two."

CT-5052 slid off the bed and retrieved his helmet from the nearby counter top. "Looks like we both failed."

Cody kept a sanguine expression, but the tone of his voice gave away his disappointment. "Yeah, looks that way."

"Your roommate is up next," CT-5052 announced. "This I can't wait to see."

"I agree." Cody looked at the medic. "Can you hurry it up a bit? There's a show I don't want to miss."

 _ ***hraka - Lapine curse word for "excrement", borrowed from Watership Down**_

 _ **Also, I posted the character listing, but I wonder if it would also help (and does anyone care) for me to add a bit about the OCs on that listing. For example, CT-1080-1 being a special creation for ion and fission? CT-8383 being a pilot? Does it matter? I have an entire outline that lists every character, their traits, their background, etc. It's hard to keep track of them otherwise!**_


	50. Chapter 49

_**Dear Reader, A fairly long chapter here. And lots of numbers! So, I've included a "key" at the start of the chapter. I'm sure aficionados of the TV series will catch some of the themes from various episodes, and those "references" play into just how much Rex's character changes from the time of his ARC training up to Umbara and the whole bit with Fives - and even into the Bad Batch arc. Also, I liked the term one of my reviewers, CT-782 used, regarding Rex and his scenario, so I've used it here as a tribute! Thanks to all my reviewers! It's nice to see folks are enjoying the story. Peace, CS**_

 _ **Delta Squad**_ _ **  
CT-1004 (Gree - series)  
CT-3942 (an ass)  
CT-9111  
CT-7096  
**_ _ **CT-5572**_

 _ **Echo Squad  
**_ _ **CT-7567 (Rex – series)  
CT-2025 (Colt – series)  
CT-9090 (likes to throw fuel on the fire)  
CT-390 (always wants to know why, hyper-critical)  
CT-8462 (dark eyes, quiet and a bit timid)  
CT-9218 (Shinie, crack shot and good pilot; alert)  
CT-8448 (Shinie)  
CT-1550 (904**_ _ **th**_ _ **Communcations Group)  
CT-5576 (88 Division Artillery – DIVARTY – walker "jockey"; fatalistic, gallows humor)  
CT-1448 (Unnamed OC – no history yet)  
Captain Spicer – Squad Advisor**_

 _ **Clones on Observation Ring  
**_ _ **Commander Cody (series)  
CT-3636 (Wolffe – series)  
CT-5869 (Stone – series)  
CT-5052 (Bly – series)**_

 _ **Cadre**_ _ **  
Colonel Claw – Commandant  
Commander Steed – Training Officer  
Major Tides – Training Officer**_ _ **  
**_

Chapter 49 Echo Squad

" _Thunder is good. Thunder is impressive. But it is lightning that does the work."_

Mark Twain

"So, who are we up against?" CT-7567 asked directly upon the arrival of the rest of his squad mates.

"If you hadn't gone running off, you'd know," CT-2025 quipped with a shoulder nudge.

CT-7567 assumed an air of mock superiority. "Well, unlike the rest of you, when I see my room-mate going down for the count, I feel the need— _and_ the responsibility—to make sure he's okay."

"Bah!" 2025 grinned. "You're just cozying up because you want him to get you a position in the 501st. But with the way you keep talking about competing with him, you might forever bar your own entrance to that unit."

"No, that's not it," 7567 corrected. "I may be competitive, but that's not why I came down here. I came down here to _make sure he was okay_." He spoke the last words with emphasis.

CT-2025 was an astute observer, and he was surprised at what he was discerning.

CT-7567 really _was_ concerned about his room-mate.

"And was he okay?"

"I didn't get to see him," came the reply. "They wouldn't let me onto the platform, and they said he'd probably already been taken to the medic station. But Bravo Squad's advisor told me he was alright." A pause. "I guess I believe him."

"Well, I hope your concern doesn't interfere with your ability to focus on our scenario," 2025 stated. "We're up against Delta."

"Delta. That's CT-1004."

"That's right. Your wrestling buddy."

"Ahh, this will be great! I think he's as competitive as I am."

"No one's as competitive as you are," 2025 rejoined. "But that's to our advantage."

"Echo Squad." Captain Spicer called them to attention. He strode in front of them, and as he passed CT-7567, he spoke in a low voice but loud enough for the others to hear, "I will deal with you later."

His words didn't faze CT-7567 in the least. What was the worst that could happen? He'd get a few gigs: maybe some extra duty or physical training. What Captain Spicer didn't know was that his firebrand lieutenant actually enjoyed extra duty and relished the prospect of additional physical exertion. CT-7567, while not obsessed with the idea of a perfect physique, nonetheless felt that a soldier needed to stay in shape, look good in the dress uniform, fit comfortably into the armor, and have the strength and stamina to get the job done. Working out was not a punishment to CT-7567; quite the opposite, in fact.

And if extra duty meant he'd get to sharpen or hone his skills in any area, he was agreeable to that, as well. Maybe he'd have to do his penance in the presence of other troops, which was always enjoyable – CT-7567 was, after all, an extremely social being. But even if he were to pass the time alone, scrubbing the latrine floor with a toothbrush, he'd be fine with that, too. Private time was as enjoyable as social time. He liked to be alone with his thoughts, conjuring up possible scenarios in which he might one day find himself, and then try out, in the safety of his mind, different solutions.

Quite simply, CT-7567 was as irrepressible as he was energetic.

All he needed—and this was part of Captain Spicer's task—all he needed was the right fire to temper his steel. The pieces were there; they only had to be properly coaxed together.

"Turn to the holo-projector," Captain Spicer ordered his squad. "This is your scenario."

The trainees all faced the projection; and for a moment, they weren't sure what they were looking at. The image was dark with only occasional patches of slightly lighter shades of blue or gray. As the image drew out, they could make out rough tunnels filled with debris and clusters of fallen rock. Pulling out further, the scenario revealed itself to be an underground labyrinth with two fairly large caverns, one directly opposite the other at the farthest ends.

"Do any of you recognize this?" Captain Spicer asked.

"No, Sir," came the flurry of responses.

Spicer grinned in an almost sinister manner. "PX-3. Tunnels of Hextor."

"I've never heard of it," CT-2025 remarked.

"You have now," Spicer replied.

"So, what can you tell us about this place?" CT-7567 asked.

"I can tell you there is more than one way to reach your objective. Study the maps—"

"Can we download them into our HUDS?" 7567 interrupted.

"If you wish," Spicer replied. He continued, "There are plenty of indigenous life forms that you could possibly encounter. Information on them is in the databank. The mean temperature in the labyrinth is . . . "

For the next ten minutes, he went through routine information. When he had concluded, he asked if they had any questions.

And while there were no questions, there was one assertion.

From CT-7567. "We're going to want to take jetpacks."

Captain Spicer looked a bit surprised, but only for a moment. "The entire scenario is underground, lieutenant. Jetpacks won't be necessary."

"Even so, we're going to want jetpacks," CT-7567 persisted.

Captain Spicer squinted then turned his attention to CT-2025. " _Squad leader_ ," he said, leaning heavily on the words. "This is your squad, you make the decisions."

But CT-2025 was not one to be offended by the take-charge attitude of his companion. His ego was not so fragile, his pride not so tenuous. To him, all was about victory and the best way to attain it. Besides, he rather liked the idea of having jetpacks – just in case.

"We're going to want jetpacks."

Captain Spicer hesitated for an instant, sucked in an exasperated breath, then turned to the briefing room technicians. "Jetpacks."

As one of the techs went into the equipment room, Captain Spicer spoke to the two technicians manning the briefing room consoles. "And tell control we're bringing in jetpacks."

* * *

"I know CT-7567. We were in the same pod. I grew up around him. I know what he'll do," CT-1004, the double-stripe, the military police officer, insisted.

"But he's not the squad leader," replied another Delta Squad member. His number was CT-3942, and he was as prickish as a man could be. From the moment Delta had come together for the first time as a squad that morning and all through observing the subsequent scenarios, he'd done nothing but disagree with everything anyone had dared to say.

"These scenarios seem pretty realistic." _"They're totally contrived."_

"I can't believe he forgot the flag!" _"Didn't you notice he didn't have it? What an idiot."_

"He blew himself up to save the rest of his squad." _"If it were real life, he wouldn't have done it."_

"Pretty smart, trying to communicate with those creatures." _"Bunch of crap, if you ask me."_

And, unfortunately, he was Delta's Squad's first leader.

"Look, CT-7567 may not be the squad leader, but that doesn't mean a thing," CT-1004 pressed. "He's very persuasive, and he's damned smart. Probably one of the smartest guys here. If his ideas prevail with CT-2025—and they will, I'm sure—then we're going to have a real uphill battle to beat them."

"He's not that smart," CT-3942 said dismissively. "No smarter than the rest of us."

CT-1004 scowled. "Yes, _he is_. And if we aren't prepared for whatever he has planned, he's going to blow right through us before we even know what happened."

CT-3942 raised a doubtful eyebrow. "Look, CT-1004, I don't know what kind of hero worship you've got going on, but we're all here because we're all at the top of our game. Every one of us comes into this on even ground. Every one of us. Fek, even Commander Cody's squad got wasted."

"I'm just trying to tell you, you have no idea what you're up against in CT-7567," 1004 said in one final appeal. "You're the squad leader. I was just trying to provide some background on our enemy."

" _We_ are our enemy," 3942 droned. "We're them; they're us. We're all cut from the same cloth. We all have similar abilities and similar weaknesses. The point of this exercise is nothing more than to beat the other team at their own game . . . _which is our game, as well_."

CT-1004 held his tongue. He'd tried. He knew what they were facing, not just in the scenario itself, but in at least one member of Echo Squad. He'd said his piece, and now he would do the dutiful thing and fall in line with whatever his commander-for-the-moment decided.

"CT-5572, look up what sort of obstacles we can expect to find in those passages," CT-3942 ordered. "Terrain obstacles and living obstacles. I'm sure those tunnels are filled with all kinds of nasty creatures." He leaned closer towards the holograph. "In the meantime, let's figure out the best way to get to the other side."

* * *

Cody took a place along the observation ring beside CT-3636, now fully recovered from his own ordeal in the first round. Joining them were CT-5052 and CT-5869.

"This ought to be good," CT-3636 remarked. "From all I've heard about CT-7567, I expect him to be nothing short of brilliant." His words said one thing, but his voice clearly carried a different idea.

Cody recognized it. The tacit, unacknowledged hope to see the mighty fall, to watch the favorite not live up to the expectations. Yes, the commander knew the feeling very well, for he had experienced it himself on rare occasion. The acquaintance of his roommate being the latest prompt.

Still, he could attribute his own less-than-gracious thoughts to the idea that he didn't want to see CT-7567 fail for the sake of making himself feel better; but rather, he rationalized that a defeat would take some of the slapdash out of the lieutenant and perhaps instill a degree of humility.

 _Perhaps._

CT-5052 picked up on 3636's theme. "He's got enough arrogance to make up for the whole squad. Poor bastard who has to try and be _his_ squad leader." Then, seeing a peculiar expression on Cody's face, he added quickly, "Sorry, Commander. I don't mean to rag on your roommate."

Turning, it became evident that the peculiar expression was just a grin – a small, indulgent, understanding grin. And once again, Cody congratulated himself for being more mature, more adult than his fellow clones. For the truth was, developmentally, none of them were beyond even 21-years-old; and despite the rigors and discipline of life on Kamino, they were still young men, and their maturity was, for the most part, commensurate with their age.

Few and far between were men like Cody, who, even at the tender psychological age of 21, carried himself with the gravity and reserve of a man much older. And so, he was not surprised or even disappointed to hear his fellow clones express something that he considered to be little more than envy. They were jealous of CT-7567. Damn, who wouldn't be?

Whether such envy had any _genuine_ basis remained to be seen.

"No need to apologize," Cody replied. "I think we all need to get to know him a bit better." This, despite the fact that he himself had been immediately turned off by CT-7567's abundance of exuberance to the point where he'd already considered asking for a new roommate.

"I like him." This from CT-5869. "I like his energy."

"All _field_ units have energy," CT-3636 replied without even casting a glance in 5869's direction. "It's a must if you expect to win on the battlefield."

The jab at CT-5869's assignment to the Coruscant Guard was unmistakable; but it elicited no reaction. Cody surmised that CT-3636 was still smarting from his defeat at the hands of CT-5869, who continued on with his initial train of thought.

"From the stories he was telling last night, I think he must have a real knack for tactical and strategic planning," he said. "And it sounds like he knows how to adjust fire as he goes along."

"Yeah, if all those stories are true," 5052 groused. "He may be nothing more than a great story-teller."

Here, Cody was thoughtfully silent for a moment before stating simply, "I think they're all true." He couldn't account for why he believed as he did. He'd never heard of CT-7567 before, although clearly some of the others had. But he'd been there last night, listening to the tales. Amazing as they were, still they didn't strike him as being _tall_ tales. They had merely been told with such enthusiasm that it had been almost like entertainment. CT-5869 was definitely right: CT-7567 had the energy and the smarts to have earned a place in ARC training.

Cody only wondered if he wouldn't burn out—or burn out everyone around him—before it was finished.

"Well, I guess this will be our first indication of just how great he really is," CT-3636 noted. "And I, for one, am looking forward it."

"You're not alone," Cody nodded with a simper. "This is going to determine what I have to live with for the next few days – or until the next test comes along."

* * *

Echo Squad entered the chute.

"Everyone ready?" CT-2025 asked, receiving affirmatives from every team member.

"Remember, the goal is to plant the flag," he went on. "But that doesn't mean we have to sacrifice ourselves needlessly." He gestured for everyone to remove their helmets and gather close. He lowered his voice. "And remember to move quickly. If we can keep the control team off-balance, we might be able to give them a surprise or two."

The light turned green and the door opened onto the scenario.

They put their helmets back on and stepped into the labyrinth.

Immediately, eight of the ten squad members moved out straight down the tunnel.

Turning back to the remaining two, CT-2025 gave a curt nod, which the others returned as an acknowledgment. As the eight moved off, CT-1448 removed his jetpack and with the help of CT-9090, boosted himself up towards the roof of the cave where the tunnel entered. He found a crevice just wide enough to hold the jetpack, wedged it in place, then jumped back down. The two clones moved towards the back of the cave. CT-9090 fired off one shot that exploded the jetpack and brought the mouth of the tunnel crashing down, sealing off any forward entrance.

"Well done," 1448 remarked glibly. "No one will be coming in that way."

They both looked up at the shaft opening above them. They'd known from studying the holomap that it would be there. "Now, we've just got to make sure no one drops in on us by surprise."

"It's a narrow hole. We should be pretty good," 9090 replied. "Time?"

CT-9090 checked his chronometer. "Mm-hm. Switch frequencies." A chuckle gurgled deep in his throat. "I'll bet they don't expect that."

* * *

"They've switched comm frequencies."

Major Tides walked over and stood behind the non-clone human manning one of the many monitor screens in the control center.

"Well, they're off to an auspicious start," the major remarked. "Blowing up the passageway to prevent access. Now, they're switching comm frequencies. They're not only battling the other squad and the scenario; they're battling us." He looked at the comm readings for each of the Echo Squad troopers. "They all switched, huh. On the same mark. This was all planned before they even stepped into the chute. No one caught this during their pre-brief?"

"Briefing staff says they were very close-hold, planned everything without using helmet comm, seemed to be purposefully trying to keep the techs from hearing," the controller replied.

"Can we override and keep them all on the same frequency?" Tides asked.

From behind him came a deterring voice. "Don't try to override."

Major Tides turned to see Colonel Claw approaching.

The colonel had a look of intense interest on his face. "Let's see what they do."

Tides grinned knowingly. "You think they're going to blitz it, don't you, Sir?"

"Or crash and burn." Claw smiled in anticipation. "Either way, it will be worth seeing."

* * *

CT-7567 led the way through the tunnel, CT-2025 right behind him. Both had agreed, though CT-2025 somewhat hesitantly, that it was not safe for the squad leader to go first. He needed to be protected; this, even though CT-7567 had always made it a rule in his own platoon with the 729th that he, as the platoon leader, always— _always_ —went first. It was a habit that stuck with him now, and he'd used every bit of his charm and persuasion to convince 2025 that it was the most reasonable thing to do.

Behind them, CT-390 had ditched the guidon post that had been carrying the flag. Instead, he folded the flag into a neat, compact rectangle and tucked it into a pouch on his utility belt. This way, no man stood out as a clear target for an enemy intent on taking down the flag-bearer.

The tunnel was quiet and still, but not completely dark. An eerie sort of blue-purple light seeped from the rough-hewn walls of rock, casting an iridescent glow on the white armor. The clones moved with weapons drawn. Their own weapons, which they had brought with them from their units, had been replaced with trace-tracker equivalents; and they had been given their choice of which armaments they wanted to carry.

Per custom, the officers usually chose a side-arm and a blaster. The enlisted men preferred blasters, grenades, droid poppers, and the like. Only grenades and rocket launchers had been off-limits, mainly due to the restricted size of the training platform.

CT-7567 had always carried two side-arms, two DC-17 pistols, in preference to carrying a blaster. He could hit a bulls-eye from 100 meters away, and a moving target was no safer from his skill than a stationary one. His prowess with a blaster of any kind was so impressive that he could make a strike without even laying eyes on the target. The audible triangulation function drilled into every clone's brain had been honed to such perfection in CT-7567 that visual contact was not necessary for him to find his mark.

He had both pistols drawn and leveled at chest height. He and his companions were using the sub-infrared filter in their visors to give a bit more clarity to the murky purplish light.

They were moving very quickly, but that had been part of the plan. They had all concluded that the competition was not so much against Delta Squad as it was against the controllers. To be sure, the controllers had a very distinct upper hand in that this was _their_ scenario. Doubtless they already had plenty of obstacles and obstructions programmed and ready to be unleashed. They had been doing this for four months at least, so they had the experience – not to mention, the god-like omniscience of everything that was happening on the platform.

It had been CT-7567's idea to proceed rapidly through the scenario with the hopes of staying one step ahead of at least some of the controllers' fun and games. CT-2025 had quickly jumped on board and with the creativity of the rest of the squad, they'd come up with some creditable schemes. In fact, it had been Shinie CT-9218's idea to bring the ceiling down to cut off Delta Squad from the flag-planting ground. The frequency trick had belonged to CT-7567, but CT-1550 had fleshed it out to a timed, recurring change. CT-2025 had planned the route with input from the others; and now, as they approached their first decision point, they all hoped that the actual scenario matched what they had seen in the holo.

And, in fact, it did.

The tunnel they were in split into two, one sloping upwards, the other downwards.

Without a break in pace, they began heading up.

"Comm switch," CT-2025 ordered, and they adjusted their frequencies to another channel.

Knowing it would take the controllers less than two minutes to identify the new frequency, the troopers made their communications quickly in the small window of opportunity.

"No obstacles so far. I don't trust it. They're holding back," CT-390 stated.

"Just keep your eyes open. Stay alert," 2025 instructed. "I'm sure it won't be long."

Yet, another minute passed without any confrontations.

" _They're messing around with us,"_ CT-7567 mused silently. _"Well, that's okay. That's how I like it. The bigger the challenge, the better."_

* * *

"They're approaching Hazard 2-H." This announcement came from the senior controller tracking Echo's progress.

"Where's Delta Squad?" Colonel Claw asked.

"There's the four they left behind to defend the objective. The rest broke into teams of two. These two here have already encountered the bones . . . not pretty, but they're giving it a good shot. The other two teams: one went to the second level. The other is . . . about to have some fun," came the senior controller for Delta.

Claw nodded. "Make sure Echo has their fair share of fun. 2-H is always good for some chaos."

* * *

"Well, I guess we were wrong about the image on the holo," CT-9218 remarked, frowning beneath his helmet. "This isn't water. Looks more like . . . tar."

He and his companions stood at the edge of an underground lake – a lake which, from the murky holo images, had appeared to be of water. But now that they were seeing it directly, they could clearly see that it was not water at all but of a much thicker consistency.

CT-7567 stepped up to stand toe-to-edge with the feature. "Makes no difference. We're still crossing it the same way." He pat the jetpack ignition on his wrist. Then, realizing that he might have overstepped his authority, he looked to CT-2025. "Is that still the plan?"

"It is," 2025 nodded. "You can see the bank on the other side. It's not that far across. Fifty meters. That's an easy burn." A pause. "CT-390, scan for combustible gases. We don't want to send ourselves sky-high when we light it up." _Light it up_ being vernacular for jetpack ignition.

Thirty seconds later, CT-390 nodded the all-clear. "We're good to go."

"CT-7567, get to the other side. Let me know how it looks," 2025 ordered.

And because CT-7567 never felt more comfortable than when leading the way, he gave an eager acknowledgment and without a moment's hesitation, ignited the jetpack. He rose slowly, then as he added more oxygen to the fuel mixture—through the barely perceptible movement of the thumb toggle, drawn down from within the gauntlet only when the jetpack was in use—he angled the thrusters and zipped across the lake, coming to the far side in less than five seconds, sweeping up to an abrupt halt.

CT-2025 simpered and spoke into his helmet comm. "Uh, I was hoping you'd go slowly enough to check out this obstacle and report any perceived danger or abnormalities."

CT-7567 was not chastened nor put off. The chance to go up again was more than welcome. "I'll go give it a more thorough look," he replied. "This side looks clear. Just like the holo indicated. There are four different tunnels leading away from the bank. No signs of any activity."

"Copy that. Make another fly-over – and . . . try to be thorough but not too slow. I have a bad feeling about this place. The longer we wait over here on this side, the greater our chances of getting attacked," CT-2025 said.

CT-7567 took off again and headed out over the dark, still, and non-reflective sludge. He kept a fair space between himself and the tarry surface, not allowing his feet to dip below three meters height. The pool was silent and still – no ripples, no bubbles, no eddies. In fact, it looked solid. CT-7567 was tempted to try and touch down on it, but that would be giving in to his own curiosity at the expense of the mission. Instead, he finished his somewhat cursory surveillance and alit on the near shore once again in the midst of his squad mates.

"I didn't see anything suspicious," he reported. "There's no movement at all. I actually wonder if it's solid."

"We can find that out once we're safely on the other side. I don't want to do anything to disturb it until we'll across," CT-2025 stated.

"I agree."

"Then let's get a move on."

They switched frequencies once more before undertaking the crossing.

CT-7567 went first once again. The three Shinies, CT-8462, 8448 and 9218, followed immediately, and both CT-2025 and 7567 were glad to see they knew their way around a jetpack. Some clones graduated from basic training without having quite got the knack of rocketeering; for the truth was, it was not the easiest skill to master. The jetpacks were heavy and unwieldy, and clone armor was not well-designed for their use. It took a lot of energy for the thrusters to lift a fully-armored clone off the ground.

Still, CT-7567 was a huge proponent of the jetpack. He might be a ground-pounder, but he loved the sensation of floating and flying, soaring and hovering. He liked the advantage being airborne gave him on the battlefield. Even with the bulk and weight of the equipment on his back, rocketeering gave him a sense of freedom, of superiority, even euphoria from time to time.

He touched down on the far bank and turned to see the Shinies land safely. "Well done," he said with a nod.

"Thank you, lieutenant," came the chorus of replies.

"You two, check out the far right tunnel for fifty meters."

CT-8462 and 8448 took off down the tunnel. During their planning in the briefing room, they had pre-chosen the tunnel, knowing that it led to a formidable chasm—one that could be easily crossed using jetpacks—with the intention that, if they had any pursuers by that point, they could leave them behind at the chasm.

CT-7567 and 9218 watched the progress of the rest of the squad across the lake.

CT-390 zoomed across without a hitch.

CT-1550 and 5576 rounded out the 10-man squad, and they were enroute just ahead of CT-2025, who was bringing up the rear.

CT-1550 was from one of the specialty units: the 904th Communications Group, a mysterious and highly classified organization whose mission fell somewhere along the lines of intercepting enemy communications, translating and interpreting, as well the development of codes used by the Republic. It was an operation that was probably more actively engaged on a daily basis than any of the combat units, though always under a cloak of secrecy. The veracity and accuracy of gathered intelligence often found its lynchpin in units such as the 904th. Spies and stealth equipment might be able to acquire data and transmit it for decoding and interpretation: but it was the men in the 904th and the like who made sense of the information. As such, theirs was a job that was demanding in a different way from the job of the front-liners. It required long bouts of focused attention, patience, endurance, and a mind that could quickly discard old ways of thinking and decipher the message challenge of the day. The necessity for speed was there, but always slightly overshadowed by the even greater need for accuracy.

It had been CT-1550's know-how that had enabled CT-7567's plan of frequency-switching to work as beautifully as it was. The man had known precisely how to synchronize random switches that would keep the controllers guessing.

And then, there was CT-5576. Walker jockey from the 88th Division Artillery, or more commonly referred to as 88 DIVARTY. He had all the characteristics of the mounted artillery – the sort of devil-may-care attitude of a man who knew he was a primary target every time he stepped onto the battlefield by virtue of the weapon on which he rode.

In addition to the big guns, units like 88 DIVARTY also had hundreds of mounted troops riding out on All Terrain Reconnaisance Transports – AT-RTs –converted for lightning strikes on the battlefield. These two-legged mechanical equivalents to the cavalry could be dispersed from the rear door of a gunship, move quickly over almost any terrain, and carry a wallop of firepower that any infantry soldier could not help but envy.

And the men who rode them had a fatalistic view of their survivability, yet it was that dim outlook that perpetuated a sort of gallows humor among them. Talk of death was common and often addressed in mocking terms. Yet, they were extremely proud of what they did for the Grand Army, and their ties were strong, even between riders in different divisions.

One of the things CT-7567 had come to notice about walker jockeys was that they all seemed to speak with the same strange accent – as if they had just rolled off the land after a year of nerf-herding. It was always a treat to listen to them talk – and there were even times when not a word was comprehensible, but the sing-song rhythm and mellow flow of their voices . . .

"Tunnel's clear, lieutenant." The voice came over CT-7567's helmet comm.

"Copy that. Stay there. Everyone's almost over. We'll be joining you soon."

He had just finished speaking when up from the lake's surface, a dozen or more plumes of tar shot into the air, arcing and twisting before falling back into the muck while others rose to take their place.

"What the—" CT-7567 didn't finish the curse before a long arm of tar slapped towards the bank where he and 9218 were standing. They managed to jump back just in time. Bits of tar splashed against the ground and rocky walls around them, but the bulk of the tentacle remained intact and slithered back into the lake.

"Back up! Back! Back!" CT-7567 ordered, even as he drew his pistols. He fired once into the tar, only to watch the bolt be harmlessly absorbed. "Kriffing . . . " He fired once more, this time towards one of the writhing spouts that was attempting to lasso the three remaining members of Echo Squad who were still over the lake, dodging and spinning, trying to get past the danger to the other side. Among them, the squad leader!

Despite the fact that it was a contrived scenario, CT-7567 did not react to it like a training exercise. Once thrown into the thick of danger, he did what he always did and rose to the moment.

The three men were too far across to go back; and even if they could, the number of spouts was increasing and with greater ferocity. CT-7567 recognized that these were not just the natural occurrences of a cyclical phenomenon. No, there was sentience behind this activity. Whether it was one being or multiple beings, it seemed clear that the intent was to snare and capture.

It took only seconds for his eyes, scanning for any possible relief, to light upon a series of ledges and crannies along the walls and ceiling. They might afford some cover . . .

"Get to one of the ledges!" It was actually CT-2025 who shouted the order, beating him to it. "Go straight up!"

CT-1550 and 5576 obeyed immediately, although it was not as easily said as done. The plumes of tar were rising up with such frequency now that evading them was becoming increasingly difficult.

CT-1550, doing his best to weave around the obstacles, passed through a sudden fountain burst that doused the thrusters on his jetpack. His momentum took him into the wall. He slid down several meters until his fingers found a narrow, precarious purchase. Using his thumb, he toggled the jetpack's afterburner vents into the open position, and hanging on with one hand, pressed the ignition switch. The force of the burn sent him careening upwards, and he managed to shut down the jetpack just before he ricocheted off the cave ceiling. CT-2025 swept up from below and beside, grabbing him and barely getting them both to one of the ledges just as another arm of tar came spiraling upwards.

Still out over the lake, CT-5576 had seen something the rest of them had not. His vantage point had shown him what had happened both when 1550 had flown throw the first burst of tar and then again, when he'd ignited the afterburners, the heat of which had reached down far enough to scorch the surface of the tar lake.

The heat, the flame-when it had come into contact with the viscous substance—had turned it solid, like a stone, and the hardened tar had sunk back down into the lake. That might be useful information, but he needed to relay it before he himself got taken down.

"Echo leader!" He called into his helmet comm. "The heat—agh!—the heat from the jetpack thrusters—ungh—damn!—it turned this hraka into stone!"

CT-2025 needed nothing more to prompt him to act on this report. "CT-7567, get everyone away from the edge! 5576, get out if you can. If not . . . just keep dodging 'em for a few more seconds." He turned to CT-1550. "Give me your jetpack. It's too damaged now for anymore flying. This way, we can get some use out of it."

"What are you going to do, Lieutenant?"

"Hopefully . . . not get us all killed." He took the pack. "Stay here and keep away from the edge. I don't know what this is going to do." A pause. "CT-7567, on my command, fire at the surface."

"Copy that."

He opened the fuel bleeds on the damaged jetpack, smelled the pungent stench of liquefied ion propellant, and launched himself off the ledge, jetpack in hand. He buzzed over the surface, weaving between the tentacles trying to capture him, and drizzling the fuel onto the surface. He had no guarantee that this would work, but it was the only option he could think of under the circumstances.

After several passes, the fuel was gone. He tossed the jetpack and, like CT-5576, found himself doing all he could just to evade the plumes. He made it to a crevice in one of the walls.

"7567, fire!" He shouted.

CT-7567 had planned to place multiple shots, but when the first shot sent the surface blazing like an inferno, he instead found himself leaping back from the heat. But the fire was short-lived, no more than fifteen seconds, and it swept over the entire lake like a massive wave; and when it had ended, he stared in shock: the lake was turning into stone. But as it hardened and expanded, it did not raise up along the walls as the path of least resistance. Rather, it pressed against the basin that formed its bed . . .

Cracking the walls and bringing the entire cave to a trembling crescendo.

CT-7567 could already see what was going to happen. They needed to act quickly. "CT-390, get up to that ledge and get 1550 down. 2025, where are you?"

"I'm here," CT-2025 emerged from the crevice. "Have you seen 5576?"

"I'm okay." CT-5576 emerged from behind a column of solidified tar. His helmet and shoulder plate were freshly dented and scraped. "I smashed into the damned thing when it hardened."

In short order, they were all on the far bank together. "Are we all accounted for?" CT-2025 asked.

"Yes," CT-7567 replied. "8462 and 8448 are down the tunnel. They said it looks clear."

"Huh! Well, we know that anything that looks clear . . . probably isn't," 2025 said with a certain gravity in his voice. But his next words were spoken with tenacious determination. "Be on your guard."

CT-7567 smiled wickedly, hidden beneath the visor. "I think we've shown them a thing or two. We can beat them. Let's prove it."

* * *

"Did they somehow get hold of the scenario parameters?" Major Tides asked.

Colonel Claw smiled and shook his head. "I wouldn't put it past CT-7567; but I don't think he'd do something like that. It wouldn't be a challenge if he already knew how to defeat it. And without being able to hear what they're saying to each other, we can't know who's coming up with all the smart ideas."

"I tend to think it's a collaborative effort." This was from Commander Steed, coming over to join them. "There's a lot of smarts on that team. They're showing what they're made of."

"There's a lot of smarts on every team," Colonel Claw replied. A glint appeared in his eye. "The difference is that some troopers already seem to be thinking like ARCs, and others aren't. Fortunately, we've got six weeks to get them all thinking like ARCs." A pause. "When all is said and done, it comes down to leadership."

Major Tides chortled. "Yeah, but whose? CT-7567 is as much in charge as CT-2025 at any given moment."

"Yes, but we knew it would be like that, no matter what squad he was in, "Steed replied. "Still, I'm impressed that he's yielding authority as much as he is. 7567 likes to take command."

Colonel Claw looked at his two training officers. "By leadership, I meant _our_ leadership." He crossed his arms over his armored chest. "How we carry out our job of training these men will determine whether or not they rise to the level of ARC trooper. And you know that teaching them the skills and knowledge isn't enough. They have to leave here with an ability to think outside the norm, embrace the unorthodox. And that is only a partly teachable trait. Most of these men come here with some germ of that capability; it's up to us to develop it." He turned his gaze once more to the controller's screen. "CT-7567 is only one of eighty men. He may already have a head start as far as . . . creative thinking goes, but he's got plenty of areas where he can use some improvement. We're part of that improvement process." A pause. "And one more thing: I don't want all the attention focused on one man. He'll do enough to draw attention to himself among the trainees. That's not something we need to add to."

"Yes, Sir," both men replied.

"Besides . . . Delta Squad's not doing too bad themselves," the colonel pointed out. "There seems to be a competitive spirit on both sides."

* * *

CT-1004 was beginning to wish the six members of Delta's offensive team had stayed together. CT-3942 had been wrong to split them up; there was something to be said for strength in numbers.

It had been fifteen minutes since he'd heard from Team One, comprised of CT-2169 and CT-9111. They'd encountered some kind of trouble in one of the tunnels. Communications had been sparse and desperate, but something about bones . . .

He'd not had time to fret over it, for almost immediately, he and the other half of his own two-man team, CT-7096, had come face-to-face with something that could only be described as humanoid arachnid. The head, arms and torso of a man, the lower body and extremities of a spider.

The encounter had not come as a complete surprise. As they'd moved deeper into the labyrinth, the walls of the tunnel had become increasingly covered with filamentary strands much like those found in a spider's web. Above them, parts of the tunnel roof reached up as crevices into a bluish darkness, made filmy by the presence of the webs. Both CT-1004 and 7096 took turns keeping a vigilant eye overhead to make sure that nothing dropped down on them unexpectedly.

But the attack had not come from above. It had come from behind, with lightning speed and almost deadly—simulated deadly—consequences. The creature had not been limited to simply being able to spin webs in the manner of a regular spider; it had possessed the ability to project sticky wads of filament that had, on the very first attack, struck CT-7096 with enough force to send him sprawling. A second attack had been of lose, single strands, coming rapidly one after the other, pinning him to the ground.

CT-1004 had drawn his blaster, but the creature had the reflexes of a spider and dodged repeated shots, all as it continued to lob wads of its own.

CT-1004 had taken cover behind a rocky outcropping and continued firing as he contemplated his options. The creature had moved closer and closer to CT-7096, still trapped and struggling on the ground.

" _Easiest way out . . . "_ CT-1004 had then targeted the roof and brought enough of it down that the creature could fit only a single spiny arm through the opening at the top of the rubble. But that was no guarantee of safety, for the creature had the strength of a spider and began pulling at the debris in its bid to claim its prize.

CT-1004 had moved quickly, burning through the webbing holding CT-7096 captive, and the two had run full-tilt down the passageway until the appearance of the webs thinned and finally disappeared. Now, they found themselves overlooking a wide, seemingly bottomless chasm.

"How are we going to get across this?" CT-7096 grimaced. He was a Shinie, specialty-trained as an armaments officer, rather wide-eyed and naïve, if CT-1004 were any judge. However, CT-1004 viewed their pairing as a perfect opportunity to impart some of his own wisdom, his own skill, and his own notions of loyalty and devotion to a brand new soldier who hadn't even seen a single blaster shot fired on the field of battle yet. Plus, he knew that CT-7096 would not be at ARC training had he not shown something during his formation that had set him apart from the others.

CT-1004 was about to find out what that _something_ was.

For no sooner had CT-7096 asked than he answered his own question.

"We could fire grappling hooks into the ceiling and swing across," he suggested. "Or, if I recall . . . " He pulled out his HOPO and opened up the holo-schematic. "Look here . . . twenty meters directly below us is another opening, and its tunnel swings wide . . . it's on a more direct route to the objective. The problem is, we don't know what surprises might be waiting for us in that tunnel. If we cross here on this level, we know that we have to make at least seven switchbacks to lower levels to come out at the same point as we would here. We're also assuming those shafts into the lower levels have ladders or someway to get down them. We could end up having to rappel each one. Here, we'd only have to do it once."

CT-1004 listened intently. The kid had a good tactical mind.

 _Kid . . . he's only a few months younger than me._

"What's your recommendation?" 1004 asked.

"I recommend we rappel here and take our chances."

CT-1004 grinned. "I think we'd be taking chances no matter which route we chose."

"Agreed, lieutenant; so why not make the physical exertion the least part of it?"

CT-1004's grin broadened. "I like your way of thinking. Okay, let's do it. Wait—listen? What's that sound?"

Both men drew back, hugging the walls of the opening.

A few seconds later and at an opening across from and slightly above them, a gaggle of clones appeared.

"It's Echo Squad!"

* * *

"Jetpacks!" CT-2025 ordered.

"What about CT-1550?" CT-5576 asked. "He doesn't have his jetpack anymore."

"I can wait here," CT-1550 deferred. "The goal is to get the flag planted. We don't all have to be there to do it."

"I'll take you across," CT-7567 stated. "These things can handle the weight of two men easily. There's no need to stay behind. We'll probably need all the firepower we can muster as we get closer to our objective."

"You may need to use the jetpacks again; and yes, it can handle the weight of two men easily, but that also burns fuel at twice the rate. We may get to another obstacle, and there won't be enough fuel for—"

"No one gets left behind," CT-7567 said definitively. "That's our creed. Never lose faith with each other, never leave a fellow soldier behind."

"Sounds good in a speech but has little bearing on reality." This from CT-390. "We leave men behind on the battlefield all the time."

" _I don't_ ," CT-7567 replied. "Not on the battlefield and not here."

CT-2025 interjected. "We can put the philosophical debate aside for now." He looked to CT-1550. "You're not staying behind. CT-7567 will get you across. If running out of fuel is the worst thing that happens to us over the course of this scenario, we can probably consider ourselves lucky."

"Lieutenant, look! Down there. It's Delta Squad."

"I just see two of—watch out!"

A volley of blaster fire came from the opening where the two members of Delta Squad were covering.

"That's CT-1004!" CT-7567 exclaimed. "Hoo! He's going to try taking a shot at me?" There was a tinge of playfulness in his voice that was completely at odds with the scenario.

"Don't forget, they're the enemy in this scenario," CT-2025 pointed out. "They're going to try and take us out just like we're going to try and take them out. But—" He reached out and grabbed CT-7567's arm as the latter moved into a position to return fire. "—but we can't waste time in a firefight. We need to reach the objective before time runs out."

CT-7567 considered. "Then how about you take three with you and leave three here with me? We'll cover you so you can get across, then once we've taken them out, we'll follow."

CT-2025 simpered. "What happened to _leave no man behind_?"

"You're not leaving us behind," CT-7567 replied. "We're covering you so you can out of here and move on to the objective. I fully intend to follow you as soon as we've taken care of these guys."

There was a tense moment of consideration, then CT-2025 nodded resolutely. "That's a sound strategy. CT-390, 5576 and 9218, you're with me." He looked to CT-7567 once more. "Follow as quickly as you can. Cover fire."

CT-7567 nodded and made a gesture to the three members of his team to take up firing positions.

"Open fire."

* * *

"Eight against two," CT-5869 noted. "CT-3942 shouldn't have split them up into two-man teams."

" _Fifty_ against two are fair odds, if the two are ARC troopers," Commander Cody noted.

CT-3636 stood leaning on his forearms over the railing. "None of us are ARC troopers yet. And if this morning's been any indication, we might _all_ wash out."

Cody chuckled and gave his fellow commander a friendly clap on the shoulder. "We're just getting started, Commander. If I were a betting man, I'd say these scenarios are meant to be more a test of character than an assessment of skill. Having a sort of . . . eye in the sky that can manipulate the program to make it harder for anyone to succeed . . . they just wanted to see our reactions."

"I don't know," CT-5869 deferred. "Echo Squad is doing pretty good. Your room-mate and CT-2025 seem to work pretty well together—"

"We can't hear a word they're saying." This from CT-5052. "For all we know, they could be arguing the whole way. CT-7567 seems like the kind of guy who always has to have things his way."

Cody regarded him sidelong. "Enh, cut him some slack. He's a powerhouse, and he likes to win. Nothing wrong with that." As he spoke, he made a mental note to himself to remember those words in his own dealings with his room-mate.

"If you say so," 5052 said, sounding unconvinced. He had known plenty of troopers just like CT-7567. Selfish, thoughtless, braggarts. Guys who always wanted to be at the top of the pile . . . _heroes_.

 _Why did those who didn't know any better always see such men as heroes?_

"Look, they're making their move." This from CT-3636. A gleam of anticipation shone in his eyes. "Let's see if they all make it."


	51. Chapter 50

_**Dear Reader, A nice, short chapter . . . enjoy! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 50 The Risk-Taker

" _You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of mind next to honor."_

Aristotle

* * *

"This is no good," CT-1004 grunted. "Every time we even try to stick our heads out, they're raining on us."

"Maybe it's best to just let them go and then follow our plan to rappel to the lower level," 7096 replied.

"I think you may be—fek and all, what the hell is that?" CT-1004 changed gears mid-sentence. He pointed towards the opposite wall, seventy meters or so below the opening in which Echo Squad was taking cover.

Both men maximized the image in their HUDs. What they saw was more worrisome than the clones on the far side.

"Those look like the things Team B warned us about. Damn, there must be hundreds of them!"

"Let's get out of here. Back the way we came. We'll just have to take our chances in a side tunnel," 1004 said hurriedly, though his movements belied the fact that he was curious about the approaching danger. In fact, had he not feared for his own and 7096's survival, he would have loved to watch his former pod mate battle this enemy.

But discretion won the moment, and the two clones turned and retreated from the chasm.

* * *

"I don't see them anymore," CT-8448 announced. "They're not even trying to shoot at us."

"Did they leave?" This from CT-8462.

CT-7567 raised a hand. "Hold your fire." Then to CT-1550, "Activate your auto-viz. Link 7567 hash 77HZ3."

CT-1550, being a communications type, knew immediately what his squad mate had in mind. He did as instructed and removed his helmet without being told to do so. He knew what came next.

He placed it on the ground and shoved it out into the open with his blaster.

The optical features inside the helmet, normally activated when the helmet was put on, remained in operation even now, due to the auto-viz function. The image from the helmet was linked to the HUD in 7567's helmet. It was a safe way to "stick your neck out" without getting your head blown off. It wasn't always a feasible option in the fast pace of battle; but it was perfectly reasonable under these circumstances.

CT-7567 activated the infrared in the linked helmet. There were no heat signatures coming from the mouth of the opposite tunnel, not even on the fringes to reveal bodies concealed behind the rock walls.

"They're gone," he stated definitively, stepping out to survey the chasm directly. He slowly holstered his pistols, then retrieved 1550's helmet and handed it to him. "It's all clear."

No sooner had he spoken than down he went. Something had him around the ankle and had pulled him right over the side of the lip upon which he had been standing. Now he was dangling by one leg, looking down into the endless black depths below. He twisted to get a look at whatever had hold of him.

For a moment, he wasn't sure what he was seeing.

Chaos had erupted. There was so much movement around him, strange clicking and gurgling sounds; his body was being swung and shaken . . . the side of the chasm, the area below where they'd been standing appeared to be roiling and pulsing.

But no . . . that wasn't it . . .

It was a swarm.

A swarm of . . . skeletons?

No, impossible.

Skeletons were dead, inanimate. Nothing could induce them to function as living creatures.

He struggled to keep his vision in one place long enough to get a closer look.

Yes, yes, they looked like skeletons, but not human bones. Humanoid, but not human. They had the bipedal construct and an easily identified skull, but that was all he could make out. So intertwined and numerous were the attackers that he could scarcely tell where one began the other ended.

One thing he knew, though: the one that was holding him wouldn't be holding him much longer. He drew both pistols and from his awkward upside-down position, began firing. The bolts made contact. Bones and bone fragments went flying. He was free and falling, but that was no concern. He reached a finger to his wrist to activate the jetpack. But his effort was thwarted when another skeleton snagged him around the arm and slammed him into the wall, where he was engulfed in a sea of moving, tittering bones.

He might have some difficulty getting himself out this predicament; yet his thoughts went to his three squad mates, two of whom were Shinies. "Get out of here!" he shouted into his helmet comm, not knowing that it was already too late, that his squad mates were every bit as engaged as he was.

Receiving no response other than the grunts and gasps of fighting men, he began shooting again, hearing the crack and splitting of breaking bones. But every time he thought he was making headway, more of the skeletons would appear to bury him against the chasm wall.

He could not figure out if they were trying to crush him or tear him apart. For the moment, they seemed intent on rendering him immobile, and Force only knew what would come then, when he could no longer move.

Something narrow and hard clamped down around his throat, like a long, spindly finger.

If he lost consciousness, it was over.

The hell if he was going to let that happen.

He gathered every bit of his strength and pulled his hand towards the ignition switch. He knew the weight on top of him would be too much resistance for the jetpack, but he had already thought of an option.

Using the toggle switch, he opened the vents and flooded the afterburners. If the initial ignition didn't result in an explosion that killed everyone in the vicinity, it might be enough to propel him to freedom. It might work. Then again, it might send him to trace-tracker oblivion.

* * *

"What—what is he-? He's flooding the—" The junior controller for Echo Squad could barely get the words out.

"Shut him down! Shut him down!" The senior controller commanded.

"Shutting down," came the terse reply as one clone among the battery of technicians worked furiously to stop the buildup. He had to override the electronic mechanisms within the jetpack rigging itself, for the actions of the jetpack were not subject to the trace-tracking system. Unlike the synthesized blaster bolts and plasma recreations of living beings, the fuel powering the jetpack was real. The ion sparks that would ignite that fuel in the afterburners . . . that was real, too.

Although they had run jetpack scenarios before and were well equipped to deal with them—much like the detonation of the jetpack at the start of Echo's test, never before had they had a trainee attempt to explode a jetpack through the combustion of the afterburners.

They knew what the results were in a real-world environment. They had no desire to find out what the effects would be in a training environment. At least, not this time around.

"Raise a containment field in case—" Colonel Claw began, but he cut off abruptly as the training platform was shocked by a flash of light and the sound—not of an explosion—well, yes, an explosion—but not the sort of explosion that marked devastation; rather, it was the sound of a maximized output, a burst of power, the perfectly timed eruption of released energy.

The shock wave that followed was miniscule, not the sort of bombardment that follows the detonation of supercharged propellant.

"I'll be damned." Major Tides sounded like he was speaking the words of a prayer, despite his choice of words. "That son-of-a-bitch did it."

As the smoke and rubble cleared within the scenario and the chasm became visible again, there was CT-7567, hovering in mid-air, the jetpack still in one piece of his back, pistols in both hands blasting away at the skeletons still attacking his squad mates.

Colonel Claw let the smile spread across his face. He clapped his hand on Commander Steed's shoulder. "You were absolutely right about him, Steed. He may end up being the best to ever come through here." A chuckle. "Or the worst."

"Well, he's a risk-taker, that's for sure. Let's hope Commander Cody rubs off on him," Steed replied. "Based on what I've heard from my friends in the 729th, CT-7567 is always up for a challenge. Where he's lacking is in the . . . reasonable consideration area."

"He's hasty," Claw presumed.

"And prone to being anxious," Steed added. "Always wants to rush in and get down to business. Gets a little carried away with his enthusiasm." A pause. "I never served with him, though. Everything I know, I heard from the men who _have_ served with him."

"Judging from what I've witnessed so far, it appears your contacts were right," Claw noted. "Look at him. He's singlehandedly blowing the bones to smithereens."

"But will it be enough?" Major Tides asked thoughtfully. "He can't overcome the whole swarm on his own. I want to see how hard he tries to save the rest of his party. Or will he abandon them and go on after the others to reach the objective?"

The senior controller cleared his throat. "Hmph! Does that answer your question?"

Claw, Steed and Tides turned their attention to one screen, tightly drawn in on CT-7567's right hand.

"He's going to do it again," Claw chuckled. "Blue steel, I'll give him that."

Steed and Tides both exchanged subtle grins at the bawdy remark.

"You watch: he's going to swoop in there and give 'em a blast of JP*," the senior controller said with surety.

"If he miscalculates by even the slightest degree, he can do some serious damage," Tides said as an unnecessary reminder. "Are we still shutting him down?"

"I've got the override routed," the junior controller stated. "Just give the word."

"Is the containment field in place?" Claw asked.

"Around him, yes," the junior controller replied. "Any explosion would probably tear him to pieces, but everyone else should be safe . . . unless he gets too close."

"Keep the field active. Let him continue."

Commander Steed and Major Tides exchanged wary glances. This was a considerable risk, and it was only the first day of training.

"Are you sure you want to do that, Sir?" Tides asked. "This could turn out badly."

"If it does, I'll send my apologies to the 729th," came the falsely flippant reply.

* * *

"He's fekking crazy!" This from CT-5052. He wasn't the only one who felt that way.

"He could have blown up the whole place," CT-3636 added.

Commander Cody was more sanguine. "I'm sure the cadre has contingency plans in place for just this kind of scenario. It's unlikely that CT-7567 is the first wildcard they've ever encountered." But even as he said the words, he knew he was not speaking his own mind. Quite the contrary: he was becoming ever more convinced that his room-mate was such a departure from the norm that there could be no one like him among the entire clone army, much less among the ARC trainees.

Where did such daring come from? And what outfit could possibly tolerate such borderline-insane behavior? The 729th was full of tough characters, certainly; but Cody had never heard that they were fond of pushing the boundaries of reason. He began to wonder if the 729th commander hadn't simply sent 7567 to ARC training in order to get rid of him with the hope that he'd be reassigned afterwards.

But that possibility didn't ring true.

Cody knew he wasn't looking at a cast-off. He was looking at a man—a clone, an officer—who had bluster and confidence, possessed of a strange charisma that attracted others to the same extent that it repelled them. A man who was willing to take the risks no other right-minded man would even consider.

Unbidden, the image of General Skywalker wafted into his consciousness. He could picture the youthful face, cocksure and eager to prove his skill. He could hear the voice, deep and commanding, encouraging his men on towards victory.

And those men trusted him implicitly. No matter how dangerous the mission, they would follow him unflinchingly. They took him at his word when he promised them he would protect and lead them. There was no Jedi they revered more. No Jedi they would want clearing the way. No Jedi they would rather die for.

Cody's thoughts turned to Captain Stamp.

General Skywalker had insisted from the first moments of command that his troopers would be more than numbers. They would have names. And if they didn't have the creativity to name each other, he would be more than happy to indulge his own inspired genius.

Captain Stamp had been an easy one for the general. CT-430 had been groomed for command from his days on Kamino. He was the general's first "first-in-command", and he had done a creditable job of keeping up with his commanding officer's penchant for hard-charging. He had an uncanny early warning system seemingly built into his physical makeup – a sixth sense, as it were. He knew when trouble was coming, and he would send out the danger signal with the rapidity of a Valusian Hare stamping its foot on the ground. The idea of his quick warning, though not physically resembling the action of the hare, nevertheless gave him his nickname.

His fellow clones often ribbed him by pounding a foot on the ground in his presence, to which he reacted with amicable indifference. He'd grown used to it; and it didn't bother him, for his general had given him a name. General Skywalker had cared enough, been observant enough to come up with a name that suited him just perfectly.

Cody knew that name was a point of pride for Captain Stamp. As it should be.

Truly, Stamp was an ideal match for General Skywalker.

Yet, as the commander stood on the observation ring, watching his room-mate redefine what it meant to be a risk-taker, a faint yet persistent parallel was forming in his mind. He had seen this kind of flamboyant audacity before, and he knew where.

"It's like watching General Skywalker," he said out loud, though whether he meant for the others to hear was uncertain. It had come out of him without deliberation.

"Are you serious?" CT-3636 asked incredulously. "I know Skywalker has a reputation for being a dare-devil, but this . . . this is just craziness."

Cody gave a one-sided grin. "General Skywalker can be pretty crazy himself."

"I just wonder if it's going to work," CT-5869 remarked. "He's broken loose, but what about the rest of his team?"

Cody found himself wondering the same thing. Surprisingly, he found himself hoping, wishing, _"Don't leave them behind."_

He wanted some proof, some example to show that his room-mate was not just a very skilled egomaniac. He wanted to believe that he placed a premium on the lives of his fellow clones.

He wanted to believe that his room-mate was a good man and not just a strong man.

* * *

CT-7567 crashed into the crawling morass of bones with enough speed to scatter them for the short few moments needed to free CT-8462 and sling him over the edge with the shouted instructions to "light it up!" He didn't wait to see if 8462 followed his order before returning to the ledge where, now that he had a bit more room to work with, he could ignite the flooded afterburners once again.

Before, with three men on the ledge, the risk of any one of them getting caught in the direct path of the fire flash was too risky. Even his own body had not escaped unscathed from his initial burn. His armor was scorched, especially the back of his legs. He could feel the body glove had been superheated; and he imagined, when the exercise was over, that he would discover some surface burns to his skin.

But now with CT-8462 off the ledge—and tumbling down into the chasm but with a chance of saving himself—there was room for another afterburner ignition.

He could see his two remaining team mates struggling under the never-ending tide of skeletons, and using his infrared, he could make out CT-1550 without his jetpack near the back of the ledge where it entered the tunnel. CT-8448 was barely visible and being dragged towards the edge.

"I'm coming in for a burn!" CT-7567 shouted into his comm. In the blink of an eye, he had swooped into the tunnel, and less than a second later, a flash of light and energy erupted from the opening, blasting not only the skeletons over the edge but the two clones as well.

* * *

"There they go! He's just killed his own men—" 5052 hissed, but 3636 cut him off.

"I don't believe it—look!"

He was looking at CT-8462, whom 7567 had earlier thrown from the ledge, and whose jetpack was now propelling him upwards just in time to snag CT-1550 as he careened off the opposite wall in the wake of the blast.

That left CT-8448, who, within seconds, had ignited his own jetpack and was flying up towards a higher opening.

All three of them had lost their blasters in the struggle, and now they had apparently lost their team leader.

"Where's 7567?!" CT-8462 asked as he gave full power to the jetpack to carry the extra weight of another man.

"I don't see him—" CT-8448 replied anxiously. "I was buried under those things. I couldn't see a thing."

"The blast came from the tunnel," CT-1550 announced. "He flew over me and into the tunnel, then the burn—fek, we have to go back and look for him—" He and 8462 alit on the lip of the higher opening with CT-8448.

"We can't stay here," 8462 stated emphatically. "Those things haven't given up yet. They're going to find a way over to this side, and we have to be out of here when they get here—"

"We can't leave him behind! He's the only reason any of us are still alive!" 1550 insisted.

"Look, that explosion—he's probably dead—"

"No, it was a burn—just like the other burn he did," 1550 protested. "We have to see if he's still alive!"

CT-8462 looked to CT-8448.

CT-8448 nodded.

CT-8462 conceded, not as reluctantly as might have been expected. He had wanted to go back and see if 7567 was okay, but he'd not wanted to run the risk of making the call that cost them the victory in the scenario. But now that it seemed they were all in agreement, he was as eager as the others.

"Okay then . . . 1550, wait here. We'll go back across and check—"

But CT-8448 was already shaking his head. "Too late."

The skeletons were swarming back to the opposite ledge and into the tunnel.

"We won't be able to get to him," 8448 lamented, "Even if he is still alive."

Cody's shoulders tensed.

From the moment of the explosion in the tunnel, he'd felt something cold and vise-like grip his gut.

He could not see what was going on inside that cave, and suddenly all the safety parameters of Range 9's training platform were meaningless.

The afterburner blasts had been palpable even on the observation ring. Whatever manipulation the tracetrackers might render, they couldn't possibly dampen the effects of such explosions.

Beside him, CT-5869 spoke soberly. "I hope the controllers know what they're doing."

CT-5052 added with a sneer, "I hope _CT-7567_ knows what he's doing."

Cody nodded soberly. "So do I."

 _ ***JP - jet propellant (fightline lingo)  
Blue steel . . . well, use your imagination! **_


	52. Chapter 51

Chapter 51 The Hard Way

" _Before you're old and wise, you have to be young and reckless."_

Suman Rai

* * *

"Show the inside of that tunnel," Colonel Claw ordered.

The image appeared on one of the bank of screens.

"Hold back the bones," he continued.

One among the many technicians responded instantly. His fingers flew over the control console, and the advance of the skeletons came to a halt.

"I don't see him, Sir," the tech stated. He initiated an organic scan. "He's not there. No organic material."

"Cue in on his chip," the senior controller said.

Another few seconds passed as the range's sensor array scanned and located the small identification chip that each clone wore in his wrist. A collective expression of surprise—even awe—went up in the control center.

The junior controller shook his head with an admiring grin. "This guy is either incredibly lucky or the most skilled soldier ever to come from the cloning facilities."

Colonel Claw allowed his own impressed smile to spread across his face. "I'd say a bit of both."

"He's going over the top," Commander Steed noted. "He'll just cross the chasm at a higher level."

"How is it he didn't blow that jetpack?" Major Tides wondered out loud. "A burn like that—we felt that explosion—yet the damned thing is still intact . . . and working."

"He took a risk and it paid off," Colonel Claw stated. "Just remember: this is only day one. I'm sure we can look forward to more of the same from him over the duration of the course." A pause. "And they may not all work out the way he wants."

The junior controller spoke up. "He downloaded the cave schematics into his HUD. He's using them now to find another way to the objective."

"Make a quick pulse on him for injuries," Colonel Claw ordered. "He's hardheaded enough to keep going even if he sustained injuries in that last burn."

The junior controller complied. "Heart rate is up. Respirations are increased, but no signs of injury or distress."

"Cool as a comet," Commander Steed commended.

"I wonder what it takes to rattle this guy," Tides remarked.

"We've got plenty of time to find out," Steed replied.

"Gents, may I remind you that it's not our goal to break any of the trainees," Colonel Claw pointed out. "We're here to teach them original thinking, problem-solving at a higher level, and to see if they can display initiative and leadership under drastic circumstances." A pause. "These are going to be our elites. There's no sense in destroying them along the way."

"Of course, Colonel," Major Tides replied. "But I have to wonder what kind of situation, what drastic circumstances we'll have to concoct in order to present a challenge to CT-7567."

"I'm sure his weaknesses will make themselves known as the training progresses," Claw said. "But let's not get over-zealous. We've got a lot of fast-burners in the class. We may have to out-think ourselves to present a challenge to all of them. But we'll deal with that on a day-to-day basis."

Another technician interrupted. "Sirs, the rest of Echo is approaching the arachnids."

To the first tech, the senior controller said, "Keep track of 7567. Console 2, you have the other three that just escaped the chasm." He then focused his attention on the group led by CT-2025, approaching the humanoid-arachnid obstacle. "These guys haven't lost a single man yet. If they make it past here with all their men still alive, it'll be a first in the history of this scenario."

"Don't take it easy on them," Claw ordered. "Treat them like you would any other team."

* * *

"Switch."

At this command from CT-2025, his three accompanying squad mates changed frequencies again.

"Still no contact with the men we left behind," CT-5576 stated. "They must have gotten caught up in some trouble and didn't have the chance to switch."

"They'll catch up," CT-2025 said with certainty. "We need to push on. Stay focused. We have to trust that they'll be alright. We need to make our objective."

"Those two explosions we felt . . . " This from CT-390.

"We don't know what those were," 2025 insisted. "But . . . if they made a sacrifice for us, we need to make sure we don't squander it."

"Looks like trouble, boss," CT-9218 announced. "Up there, just in the shadows at one o'clock."

They all followed his direction.

"What the hell is that?" CT-390 asked.

"I don't know, and I don't plan to find out," 2025 replied. "There was a shaft behind us about fifty meters. We're taking that route. Head back. Go straight up three levels."

"You know they'll have something waiting for us no matter which route we take," CT-5576 stated.

"I'm sure. Let's go."

* * *

"They're turning back, Sir." This from the junior controller.

The senior controller leaned over the man's shoulder and focused on his more detailed scope. "Let's see where they go."

"They're going to meet up with the other three," the junior stated.

"No . . . they wouldn't turn back for that," the senior disagreed. "They must have detected the arachnids and are going to try another route."

"I meant that the other three are coming up behind them quickly. They'll meet up unless either group turns off," explained the junior.

"Did they all download the schematics?" Major Tides asked.

"Yes, Sir. Most teams do, but then they don't use them once they've downloaded them," came the reply. "This scenario lends itself well to use of the schematics."

"Well, no matter what level they decide upon, they're going to have to get past the arachnids. By trying to find alternate routes, they're burning up their time," the senior controller noted.

"How much time is left?" Colonel Claw asked.

"Twenty-two minutes."

Commander Steed crossed his arms and smiled with a sense of hopeful anticipation. "Plenty of time. They can still make it." He turned his attention to another group of controllers. "What about Delta Squad?"

"They're still in the running," came the reply from a member of Delta's tracking team. "They're like mice in a maze right now, but they're headed in the general direction of the tar lake."

"That's CT-1004, isn't it?" Claw asked unnecessarily, for he knew every man on every team. He had played a large part in making the team assignments based on his own knowledge of the individuals, as well as reports from their field commanders. "He's a good matchup against 7567. They were podmates. Two spikes on a Lylek's back."

Commander Steed and Major Tides both chuckled at the imagery.

"They've already been at it in the barracks," Tides noted. "Wrestling in the hallway."

"They're both very competitive," Steed added. "And good friends."

"So I've heard," Claw nodded.

"Sirs," the first tech interrupted. "The two Echo groups have met up. They're using the jetpacks to ascend L shaft."

"Whatever level they end up on, activate the arachnids," the senior controller ordered. "And if they take too much time screwing around . . . send the beasts after them."

* * *

The reunion had been brief. Long enough to inquire after the missing CT-7567 but not long enough to ponder the answer.

CT-2025 was well aware that time was running out. There could be no going back in search of a missing man. The objective was not much further, and it was critical that they press ahead. With a 7-man team, the odds of prevailing against any more obstacles had greatly increased, though there was no such thing a sure victory in this scenario – not until the flag was planted.

Once the remaining team members had alit three levels up, they switched frequencies again before setting off at a slow, cautious run. By now, their suspicions had made them hyper-alert to the point where even the slightest anomaly, the faintest sound, the dimmest glint grabbed their attention and tempted their trigger fingers.

The tunnel through which they were moving only added to the uneasiness. It seemed that every nook and cranny was alive with the momentary gleam of light-reflected eyes, the echo of scuffling creatures, the acrid smell of something vile.

"I'm picking up a large open space on my schematic," CT-390 announced. "Twenty meters ahead. I think it's the objective."

"I think you're right," CT-2025 agreed. "I'm picking it up, too. Keep moving! CT-8848, CT-8462, keep an eye on our six. We don't need any surprises sneaking up on us from behind."

Within a matter of seconds, they entered into a cavern, the far end of which looked like a small underground mountain of solid rock.

"Our objective is up there," 2025 stated. "CT-390, you have the flag?"

"Safe and sound, squad leader," came the reply as he pat his belt.

"8448, 8462, 1550 stay down here and provide cover," 2025 ordered. "The rest of us are going up. We're jetting, so once we get airborne, standard wagon-circle formation around CT-390. Only one of us has to get up there, and it's him. If anything happens to him, one of us will take the flag and continue on." He paused and drew a deep breath. "There's no way they've let us come this far just to have a cakewalk to the top, so be on your toes."

They began the ascent at a fair but cautious speed. CT-2025, CT-5576 and CT-9218 formed a circle around CT-390, their backs arrayed to him as they scanned their surroundings for the next attack.

Down below them, CT-8448 and CT-8462 had switched to infrared to see if anything was hiding in the crevices or approaching from the cave through which they had just passed.

CT-1550, still without a jetpack and feeling particularly vulnerable, watched the progress of his squad mates on their way to the top.

A shadowed part of the cavern roof seemed to waver in the blue-tinged darkness. He instantly activated his helmet's night vision.

The shadow was a shadow no longer.

"Look out! Above you!" he shouted, raising his weapon and firing towards the roof.

Silently descending was a creature half spider, half-human. It dodged the blaster fire with ease and with lightning speed, shot out a ball of sticky filament that knocked CT-9218 out of the air and pasted him to the rocky ground below.

"Take cover!" CT-2025 called out, placing himself between the creature and his flag-bearer, firing off blindly while they tried to retreat to the nearest protection that afforded itself.

That protection turned out to be a small opening in the rocky crags, just barely big enough for the two of them to squeeze into. In their haste, they plowed gracelessly into the opening, tumbling forward to their hands and knees.

"2025, this is a tunnel," CT-390 announced, raising his head and switching to night vision. "It may lead us closer to the top—holy—fek! Back! Go back! Get out!"

Before CT-2025 could even collect his bearings, he was pushed bodily out of the opening by CT-390 and found himself sliding down the steep fels, every attempt at finding a handhold breaking away as he plummeted. Immediately above him, CT-390 was also falling. And above him . . .

Another man-spider, not quite as large as the first one, was giving fast pursuit.

"Shoot it! Shoot it!" 2025 cried, hoping that anyone would take action, while at the same time, struggling to turn his own body into a position that would allow him to fire on the enemy.

It suddenly sounded as if the entire place had erupted in blaster fire. A stolen glance as he dropped over the cliff edge and careened towards the ground below, showed CT-2025 a veritable army of the creatures—dozens upon dozens in the confined space of the cavern—emerging from every possible vent and shaft.

" _Hell no, this isn't going to happen! Not when we're this close!"_ It was not anger that welled up inside CT-2025. It was not even a sense that he had something to prove, although he did have his pride to protect. Rather, it was a determination that he would not fail this mission, this test. He owed it to his squad mates to succeed, to lead them to victory.

He ignited his jets, and a split-second later, so did CT-390. It was going to be a matter of punching their way through now. Finesse, stealth, and wily temperament were not going to do the job at this point. Brute force was the weapon of choice now.

"Concentrate fire on any creature that's in our path!" he commanded. "We have to get CT-390 to the—" He cut off abruptly as a line of spun web as thick as a man's finger struck his side, splattering and sticking to his armor. It was followed by another and then another until he was in a tug-of-war, the force of the jetpack against the creature trying to drag him down.

He fired awkwardly at the strands, but no sooner did he sever one than another would take its place. Another tactic was needed to free him. He followed the line of the strands down to their source, but the creature was well-hidden behind a parapet of rock. The best he could hope for now was to hold out and provide cover fire as long as possible in order for CT-390 to get to the objective.

He activated the afterburners and turned his focus towards his flag-bearer . . .

. . . except CT-390 was no longer airborne.

A quick scan revealed him pressed against the rocky crags, grappling with one of the creatures.

"If you—if you can get—a shot—try to take out—agh!—take out the one fighting 390!" CT-2025 grunted. What he could not see was that every one of his men were engaged, fighting for their own lives without any possibility of coming to 390's aid.

For his own part, he was finding it almost impossible to get off a steady shot; and one badly aimed bolt could take out his squad mate as opposed to the enemy. It was an untenable situation. Within a matter of minutes, the fuel in his jetback would be used up due to the protracted afterburn. He was running out of options—

A streak of light flashed in front of him; a second later, a roar of pain and rage erupted from above. Looking up, he saw CT-390 now free and clinging to the cliff side by one hand, one of the creatures plunging towards the ground. In the next moment, 390's grip slipped and he began scraping downward, unable to stop his fall. He appeared to be trying to ignite the jetpack, sparks spurting from the engines, but there was no catch.

And then the flash appeared again, revealing itself as none other than CT-7567. He snagged CT-390 in mid-fall and swept him up towards the pinnacle. Every creature was focused on them; and with the extra weight of a second man, CT-7567 opened the fuel vents fully to increase speed, moving dangerously fast for such a confined space.

Dodging the strands and the creatures jumping from the walls and roof, he arced over the top of the objective. He dropped CT-390, whose speed sent him careening towards the edge. And no sooner had he unloaded his passenger than the jetpack sputtered . . .

He was out of fuel.

Which was hardly of consequence, for the same speed that had sent CT-390 tumbling towards disaster now sent CT-7567 crashing into the cavern wall then rolling down out of sight behind the pinnacle.

CT-390 dug in his fingers, stopping his momentum just short of going over the side. Knowing that the creatures would be on him within seconds, he didn't even try to get to his feet before reaching into the belt at his waist and pulling out the flag. He slapped it against the ground, and for good measure, shouted, "Fekking planted!"

The scenario was instantly silent.

In mid-air, CT-2025 felt the jetpack cut off remotely, but an invisible energy field had hold of him and he was gently lowered to the surface.

"Is everyone alright?" he asked, looking around to see CT-1550, 8448, and 8462 gathering themselves and getting to their feet as the creatures that had just been combatting them now stood frozen, nothing more than inanimate plasma.

A rough chorus of affirmatives met his ears.

"Did we really do it?" 1550 asked.

"I think so," 2025 replied.

"Was that 7567 who came in at the end?" This from CT-5576 as he came over to join them.

CT-2025 nodded. "It was. Where is he?"

"I didn't see," 5576 replied.

A team of medics approached.

"Well done, chaps," one of them said with a grin. "First time anyone has beaten this scenario. Come on, let's get a look at you."

"We're missing some squad members—" CT-2025 began, but the same medic interrupted.

"We've got everyone. No worries."

"CT-7567—"

"Is one crazy bastard," the medic grinned. "Stop fretting. Someone else is with him. He's still in one piece." A pause. "Incredibly enough."

"What about the two men we left back at the start?"

"We have everyone. No more questions. We've got to clear the platform for the next contest, although I don't know how anything is going that top that performance."

* * *

CT-3636 turned a wry eye towards Commander Cody. "Looks like the ego is about to get bigger."

Cody simpered. "That's if he didn't break something in that crash." His voice and manner was glib, but he _was_ concerned. He'd already suspected his roommate was a loose cannon and a dare-devil; but he'd not wanted to see him get hurt, and he certainly did not want his ARC training to have come to a premature end due to injury.

He turned with as much nonchalance as he could muster and began to walk away.

"Where are you going?" CT-3636 asked.

"Med-bay."

"They didn't let him to see you; you think they'll let you in to see him?" CT-5052 asked.

"I'll have the answer to that in a few minutes," Cody replied.


	53. Chapter 52

Chapter 52 Interlude

" _You can't stay in your corner of the forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes."_

A. A. Milne

* * *

"I'm here to see if my roommate is alright," Cody said to the medical droid manning the front station in the medical bay. "CT-7567. He was in the last scenario."

"The rocketeer?" This came, not from the droid, but from a passing clone medic. "He's this way. Follow me, Commander."

Cody followed him through a short corridor into a large multi-bay room. He recognized it from his own earlier visit. At least a dozen of the bays were presently occupied, though there did not appear to be any serious injuries or sense of urgency on the part of the medical crew.

Coming to the second-to-last bay on the left, the medic nodded and left the commander to go in on his own. Inside, Cody discovered CT-7567 being looked after by an actual doctor as well as a clone medic.

"Looks like you have a visitor," the medic stated.

CT-7567 raised his head, and seeing Cody, a smile brightened his expression. "You're okay."

Cody returned the grin with a bit of indulgence. "I was going to say the same thing to you." He looked to the doctor. "Is it alright for me to be in here?"

"Yes, Commander. I'm just finishing up," came the reply.

"And . . . he's going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine," said the doctor. "A minor concussion. Some bruises. All things considered, he came through it better than I would have expected. We were watching on the monitors down here."

"Pretty impressive, huh?" CT-7567 said, sounding like a batch-kit fresh off his first training mission.

The doctor sighed with mirth and shook his head. "Hard-headed son-of-a-bitch." He turned to his assistant and motioned their departure. "Someone will be back in ten minutes after we get the results from the last battery of tests. Once they've cleared you, you're free to go. And not before." He looked to Cody. "Make sure he doesn't cut out. I don't think he's very good at following orders."

No sooner had they left than CT-7567 asserted, "I'm very good at following orders."

"I'm sure," Cody said drolly.

CT-7567 pushed up onto his elbows. "You know, I tried to get onto the platform after you blew up your scenario, but they wouldn't let me. My scenario was up next, and . . . well, they said they were taking care of you, so I wasn't able to—"

"I didn't _blow up_ my scenario—"

"You did. Oh, you definitely did," CT-7567 disagreed. "Don't get me wrong. It was beautiful, but the goal was to win, not to bring the whole place down."

"This from the man who almost _really_ blew the _whole place_ down . . . not just the scenario but the platform, the crew, and the rest of us as well," Cody countered. "By the Force, what were you thinking with those jetpack tricks? We felt those explosions even out on the observation ring."

"My squad won, didn't it? That's what I was thinking," came the flip response.

"Killing yourself and everyone else is hardly worth victory in a training scenario," Cody stated.

"No one died," CT-7567 said dismissively. "Don't be so over-dramatic. And by the way . . . why did you hesitate? In your own scenario, why did you dither around so much?"

"Dither around?" Cody wasn't sure whether to laugh or feel insulted.

"You kept hesitating, changing your mind, second-guessing yourself," CT-7567 explained. "It cost you the victory."

Cody crossed his arms over his chest. "Is that so?"

"I'm just telling you as your roommate." A challenge curled his lip and he used the commander's own words against him. "I don't want to be the roommate of the guy who washes out. If you're going to see-saw on every decision—"

Cody shook his head and chuckled. "This is a training environment. I'm not willing to risk my life or the lives of my squad mates to win a training competition."

"Hm. I guess that's the difference between us," 7567 replied. "I _always_ want to win."

"We haven't even known each other a full day," Cody said. "I don't think you're in a position to start enumerating the differences between us."

CT-7567 inclined his head in concession. "You're probably right."

Cody drew in a deep breath. "Now that I've seen you're okay, I can go watch the next scenario." He turned and began to leave.

"Commander?"

Cody stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Did you come down here because you were worried about me?"

It struck Cody as an odd question, but he was not averse to answering it.

"Of course, I was worried. I saw what happened. I knew you'd taken a hard impact."

CT-7567 smiled and with an authenticity that Cody was already coming to recognize as one of his roommate's most poignant characteristics, he said, "Thanks. I'm glad you did."

Cody nodded. "I'll see you up on the observation ring."

* * *

"Who's that in command of Gander Squad?" CT-3636 asked, leaning on his forearms over the rail as the final contest between Gander and Falcon Squad began.

"Em . . . I think his number is 1993. I sat at the same table with him last night," CT-5869 replied. "He's a captain with the 62d Rangers. Really seems to know his stuff."

CT-3636 was not impressed. After all, praise from a member of the Coruscant Guard was hardly meaningful. "We'll see."

A moment later, Cody rejoined them.

"How's CT-7567?" 5869 inquired.

"Exactly how I expected him to be," Cody replied. "A few bumps and bruises . . . and pleased as a womp rat on a rubbish heap."

His listeners chuckled – even CT-3636, who found the imagery to be quite fitting.

Only CT-5052 was humorless. He maintained a neutral expression, but Cody noticed a barely perceptible scowl draw his mouth into a thin, straight line.

Cody left him to his own sourness and turned his attention to the training platform. "That's Tatooine, the Jundland Wastes. Interesting location for a scenario."

"I suppose they'll throw in some Tuscan Raiders for good measure," remarked CT-7667, the medic from Cody's squad. "Nasty brutes."

"We mightaswell add in the Hutt crime organization while we're at it." This from CT-5869.

"Tatooine is a cesspool. Nothing good has ever come from that sand pile," 3636 said.

At this, Cody felt it necessary to counter what seemed to be CT-3636's penchant for negativity.

"You're wrong about that, Commander," he disagreed. "General Skywalker is from Tatooine. He, uh, he may not have many nice things to say about it, but it _is_ his home planet. And there's no denying that he is one of the greatest Jedi generals of the war."

"No argument there," 3636 conceded. "But that doesn't change my mind about the place. I sure as hell wouldn't want to be stationed there."

"We can agree on that," Cody said with a tilt of his head. He watched the scenario unfold below him.

But his thoughts were still down in the med bay – a fact that puzzled him more than he could account for; for Cody was not one to dwell on anything but the present moment. And his roommate had certainly been well on the mend down in the med bay. There was no reason to be concerned.

Was there? Was CT-7567's performance in the scenario of harbinger of what to expect from him in the future? Cody feared that was precisely the case. And perhaps that was what worried him.

CT-7567 had gotten lucky in that he'd not been more seriously injured; and Cody was not going to deny the inexplicable chill that had gripped him in the immediate aftermath of the explosive scenario. He had not imagined that he could lose his roommate on the very first day; and when the possibility had reared its head, he'd been truly perplexed at the feelings that had tightened his gut and tensed his muscles.

There was nothing—nothing!—about CT-7567 that appealed enough to Cody to overcome the distasteful aspects of his character. But Cody could be extremely tolerant, and he just might be able to buff a few of 7567's rough edges into something less grating, less pompous . . . less irritating. Yet, that could not explain the fear . . . yes, it was fear . . . that Cody had felt when he'd thought CT-7567 might have been seriously injured.

" _General Kenobi is rubbing off on me,"_ he said internally, only vaguely aware of the action on the training platform where Gander Squad was in as much turmoil as Falcon Squad. _"I guess that's not a bad thing."_

It was a paltry affirmation, but he still was unable to account for why he should even care about getting along with this man, his roommate, whom he would probably never see again after graduating from training.

But care he did.

How much—and why—remained to be seen.

* * *

One hour later, Colonel Claw stood with his two training officers reviewing the results of all the scenarios.

"Bravo and Crimson were both disqualified. Gander and Falcon also both failed. That puts Echo up against Alpha," Commander Steed summarized. "Are they recovered enough to compete?"

"If this were a real-life battlefield, we wouldn't ask if they're recovered enough," Claw pointed out. "We've never asked that of previous classes."

"That is true, Sir, but we've never had teams go at it quite like this before," Steed replied.

"What's different about this group?" Claw asked.

Steed and Tides looked at each other before the major answered, "This is the first class that's had considerable real-world combat experience. They've been out in the field for four-to-six months. A lot of previous classes had either no experience or barely two months. These men have been on the front lines, they've run a lot of missions. They're far enough removed from basic training that they've learned how to bend the rules to make do. And I can guarantee you, the Shinies are going to pick up their methods in record time."

Commander Steed nodded his agreement. "These men are serious, but they know this is a training environment. We can warn them about the dangers, but they've been face-to-face with live fire and an enemy determined to kill them. They see this as a chance to try out their tricks without fear of the same deadly repercussions. They don't realize they can be killed or injured here just as easily as in the field." He paused. "We need to keep a close eye on them. They're ready to open the flood gates on all sorts of crazy ideas."

"They're proving to be quite ingenious so far," Claw noted. "I'm actually enjoying watching them." A pause. "And if our two remaining teams are ready to go, fire up the next scenario." He approached his two senior controllers and put a hand on each man's shoulder. "Get ready. These two squads may end up trying anything to win."

"Colonel, might I suggest, given that it's CT-7567, that we prohibit the use of jetpacks?" the first senior controller asked.

"I concur," the other added.

"Normally, I would disagree. I don't like to tie the trainees' hands," the colonel replied. "But we've seen what Echo can do _with_ jetpacks. Let see what they can do _without them_." A pause. "In this scenario, I want the two squads to come head-to-head. Funnel them towards each other. I want them both at or near full-strength when they encounter each other. It's one thing to fight plasma recreations; it's something else completely to fight another living, thinking being."

"Which scenario do you want to use, Sir?"

"The Geonosis droid foundry."

Steed laughed despite himself. "You sure you want to trust these guys in that scenario, Colonel?"

"I trust our controllers to make sure they don't get too carried away," Claw smiled.

"Tall order, Sir," the first senior controller quipped, "But we'll do our best."

* * *

CT-7567 was back in the ready room, a little more worn for wear. But the most serious of his injuries, the concussion, had been treated with a sonic wave apparatus; and he'd been cleared to participate in the scenario. Although he was disappointed not to be competing against Cody, the fighting spirit in him was more than satisfied with the upcoming challenge.

Echo Squad had been briefed on the scenario, and now they had ten minutes to develop a strategy. Their squad advisors had made it abundantly clear that the contest in this case would involve the two squads combatting each other; they would be each other's enemy.

Needless to say, Echo Squad's request for jetpacks was denied.

As they gathered and lowered their heads into a tight circle, intent on keeping their secrecy just as they had in their previous scenario, CT-2025 asked, "What do we know about Alpha Squad?"

"We know that CT-5869 is their squad leader, and they defeated CT-3636's squad. That had to take some doing," CT-390 replied. "He's a good strategist, if Alpha's first scenario is any indication."

"I agree," CT-7567 concurred, then with a wisp of conspiratorial swag in his voice, he asked, "But isn't the objective still to plant the flag? Why do we have to go up against them in battle if we can just avoid them?"

"I think the cadre wants to see how well we can fight against an equal force," CT-1550 put forth. "They want to see how we do against other clones."

"Okay, that's fine. We can give them that," CT-7567 said, "But we can do it as a diversion while one or two men go to plant the flag."

"That's what some of the other teams tried, but—"

"But only Alpha and Havoc Squad ever came face-to-face," CT-5869 pointed out. "And that didn't last long. Maybe this time, if the controllers are expecting us to play along and go willingly towards the firefight, they might not notice or care if one or two stray."

CT-390 shook his head. "Oh, they'll notice alright. They've got eyes on every one of us. We won't be able to sneak past them."

"So . . . maybe we take our chances in the firefight," CT-5576 said with a sidelong grin. "We've all got good aim, right?"

CT-7567 chuckled. "Most of the time. I'm all in for whatever plan we decide on. We can make anything work."

CT-5869 nodded. "Firefight then."

It was agreed.

As they moved towards the chute, Shinie CT-8448 turned to fellow Shinie CT-9218. "Why do I get the feeling they're going to throw some wrench into the works? This reminds me way too much of the Felix-5 scenario from Basic."

"I know what you mean," CT-9218 replied. "We know cadres always like to play games."

"Well, if we win this one, we get to go up against a team of real ARC troopers," 8448 said with enthusiasm. "So, we'll just have to anticipate the games and be one step ahead."

 _ ***So, they're warming up to each other a little bit. I have to admit one of my favorite scenes to imagine as an animated shot is Rex insisting to Cody that, "Yes, you did blow up your scenario." I can almost picture Cody's animated smirk.**_


	54. Chapter 53

Chapter 53 The Mirror Image

" _I'd never met a man like him, but when I looked at him, I saw the man I wanted to be."_

Ken Clarke's Memoirs of Operation Market Garden as told to this author

* * *

CT-7567 liked CT-5869.

Liked him very much.

He almost felt guilty about the fact that he was about to take him out to the proverbial woodshed and teach him—and his squad—a lesson.

But guilt could not sit long on 7567's shoulders before it slipped off and drifted away forgotten. In his mind, defeat was not reserved only for your enemies; it was reserved for any adversary. In war, certainly, but also in sports, shooting competitions, obstacle courses, academics . . .

Victory equaled coming out on top, and CT-7567 was bound and determined to be the best at every undertaking; and if it meant burying friends—or would-be friends—beneath a pile of amiable ambition, then he could always tell himself it was meant in good fun. He never did anything in poor spirit, and the idea of holding a grudge was unknown to him.

Now, as he peered around the smelter furnace behind which he was hiding, he waited patiently for the _enemy_ to step into the clear.

" _Come on . . . get out there just long enough for me to squeeze off one shot,"_ he said silently. _"One shot is all I need."_

Echo Squad had made it to this point without any losses, which came as no surprise. The cadre were going to get their firefight one way or another, and at least one of the competing squads was content to give it to them. CT-7567 imagined that Alpha Squad was also at full strength. He'd only seen the two front men, one of which was the squad leader, CT-5869. But it stood to reason that the rest of the squad was in the vicinity.

" _That's it, step right into my sites—damn! Damn it! Get back out here!"_ he grumbled internally as CT-5869 made a series of lightening hops out of and back into the shadowy crevices between machinery.

Nearly two minutes now passed without any sign of the enemy, and CT-7567 was getting worried that something was about to go down.

He spoke into his helmet comm. "This is CT-7567. I've lost sight of them. Anyone have anything?"

"CT-1550. I'm tracking three—maybe four—over by the conveyer belt for the sheet metal stamp," came the reply.

"Copy that," CT-2025 acknowledged. "Who's with you?"

"1448 and 5576," 1550 replied.

"Sounds like they're past our front line," 2025 surmised. "We'll double back and catch them from behind. Open fire when they're within range, but watch out for us coming up."

"Copy."

The order went out for the rest of Echo Squad to double-back.

No sooner had CT-7567 turned than he was face-to-face with the barrel of a blaster, the dark black opening staring him in the eye.

Holding the weapon was none other than CT-5869.

"What the—how—how the hell did you get behind me? I just saw you up there," 7567 exclaimed.

"Drop your weapons and take your helmet off, Lieutenant," 5869 replied. "No secret communications going out to your squad."

CT-7567 set down his pistols and removed his helmet. He was smiling. "I'm damned impressed. How did you get the jump on me?"

"We'll have plenty of time for that later," 5869 said. "Right now, you're my leverage; so don't do anything stupid."

"Leverage? You mean . . . I'm your hostage? Oh, well, now I'm not so impressed anymore," 7567 needled. "There's no hostage negotiations in wartime. They won't stand down just because you've captured me."

"What do you want to bet they will?" came the challenge.

"Huh, then you must know something I don't," 7567 scoffed lightly. "We've all had the same training not to react to hostage- or prisoner-taking. We're trained not to give into torture and not to buckle when we see someone else being tortured. There's no way my squad is going to negotiate anything to get me back."

"Just keep talking," 5869 said with surety. "You don't notice anything, do you? So busy talking that you aren't listening. So busy looking that you don't see."

CT-7567 found the situation very humorous. "What happened to the quiet, laid-back soldier up on the observation ring?"

"He's still here," 5869 replied. "And he's about to lead his squad to victory over yours. Hands over your head. Turn around and start walking."

CT-2025 drew in an audible gasp. "Impossible. Fekking impossible," followed quickly by an order to "Hold your fire!" He could not believe his eyes as he watched CT-7567 emerge from the steam billowing from the cooling vats, his hands resting on top of his un-helmeted head, CT-5869 directly behind him with a blaster pressed into his back.

CT-5869 was flanked by two more of his squad mates. They came forward and stopped at the v-shaped intersection of two conveyor belts.

CT-5869 was not surprised by the cessation of blaster fire. Not at all. He'd expected it. He put his helmet comm on loudspeaker. "Echo Squad leader! Order your men to put their weapons down and to come out into the open with their hands over their heads."

CT-2025 activated his own speaker function. "You know we can't do that."

"But you can negotiate," 5869 insisted. "I can kill him, but I'd rather negotiate."

"What is there to negotiate?"

"We can let each other pass, and then it's just a race to see which team gets to its objective first," 5869 replied. "There's no need for us to battle each other."

At this, CT-7567 spoke back over his shoulder. "That's the most ridiculous—"

CT-2025's magnified voice drowned him out. "If we do that, you can be assured the controllers will put plenty of obstacles in both teams' ways."

"We've both made it past obstacles in our first scenarios. We stand a better chance of prevailing against manufactured enemies than each other."

"Why should I believe you?" 2025 asked.

"Because I have the upper hand, and I'm still willing to negotiate."

"You don't have the upper hand," 2025 protested.

"Then you don't care if I blow his brains out," 5869 tested. "You'd rather see that than make a deal with me?"

"I think I'd rather see that, myself," CT-7567 interjected, at which he felt the muzzle of the blaster jab at the base of his skull.

A moment passed before CT-2025 replied, "We'll come out with our blasters up, if your men will do the same."

"Agreed," came the quick answer.

"Are you crazy?!" 7567 shouted. "Don't do that! We don't negotiate with the enemy! Saving one life when—unh! Hey!" He cringed and scowled as 5869 jabbed him in the back of the head.

"Don't make me kill you," 5869 warned. "Your squad leader has already agreed. You're not in charge, so let's see if you can follow his orders."

* * *

"I don't believe this," Alpha's senior controller said with true bafflement. "He's trying to negotiate a cease-fire so that they can get past each other?"

"Is that what he's really doing? Or is this some kind of trick?" Echo's senior controller wondered out loud.

Colonel Claw was amused by both men's disbelief and confusion. "Are you both forgetting where CT-5869 comes from? He spends most of his time guarding politicians and statesmen, watching them negotiate treaties and rally votes to their causes. Clearly, he's picked up some of their way of doing things." A pause. "And I would dare say he noticed something in Echo Squad that most other trainees hadn't noticed yet. In fact, I doubt even Echo's advisor or any of you noticed it."

"What is that, Sir?" Echo's senior controller asked.

"He's recognized the _gold ring_."

"You mean CT-7567," Alpha's senior stated.

"Precisely. As difficult and overbearing as he might be, within his own squad, 7567's squad mates already think very highly of him. They weren't going to risk him being killed when they had the chance to negotiate," Colonel Claw explained. Then after a thoughtful pause, he added, "And that's a problem. Because it raises the question of whether or not Echo would throw an entire battle to save the life of just one man. CT-5869 could already see it in them, and he used it to his advantage."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised that he recognized that. He's probably more perceptive of such things, just like he's good at negotiating," Alpha's senior nodded.

"What's surprising is that CT-7567 got caught out." This came from one of the junior controllers. "It's unlike him to make a mistake like that. I'm with Captain Dart—" he was referring to Echo's senior controller, "—I have to wonder if CT-7567 let himself get caught and has some plan in mind."

"I suppose we'll find out in the next few seconds," Colonel Claw replied.

* * *

"Ha! How's that for justice?!" CT-3636 burst out with vengeful joy. "The rocketeer gets taken by the diplomat! Wonderful!"

Cody gave a closed-mouthed laugh. "I'm almost afraid to see what happens next."

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it will be entertaining." This from CT-1004. "If I know CT-7567—and I do—he's not going to agree to this."

"But 2025 already has, and he's the squad leader," 5052 pointed out.

CT-1004 smirked, "And you think that makes a difference?"

* * *

CT-7567 was horrified—or as horrified as a man could be in a training scenario—as his fellow squad mates emerged from their hiding places, coming forward with their weapons raised; while at the same time, Alpha Squad did likewise.

This was no battle! This was a—a—a truce! A meeting of the minds! This involved no combat skills, no risk, no daring, no expertise on the field of war! There wasn't even any stealth or trickery!

CT-2025 spoke up. "We're all here. What now?"

"We just walk past each other," CT-5869 replied. "I'll just keep him with me until we've made it past." To his own men, "Go past them but don't turn your backs to them."

Alpha Squad followed their leader's orders. And as 5869 moved forward, he kept his hostage close.

As it turned out . . . too close.

No sooner had they passed the last of Echo Squad's men than CT-7567 abruptly threw his weight into 5869, throwing him momentarily off-balance. But in that moment, 7567 doubled-over, grabbed the lower part of 5869's leg and jerked him off his feet. He pounced on top of him and the struggle for the weapon began.

"Blast them!" 7567 shouted at the top of his lungs, hoping to be heard over the din of the machinery and without the benefit of his helmet's speaker system.

He did not see if this command was followed, for in the next instant, CT-5869 had dislodged him and rolled him to one side. One more turn and they would both go over the edge of the walkway.

And that was precisely what happened.

Below them were the body molds into which the liquid metal would be poured to form the outer casing of the battle droids. These molds moved in precision-timed intervals along a conveyor belt, and the jerking movements made standing on the belt the equivalent of navigating a funhouse.

But that did not deter CT-7567 and CT-5869. No sooner had they landed, still interlocked, than 7567 drove the heel of his hand violently against the bottom front of 5869's helmet, disengaging the clamps and knocking it off, where it went skittering over the edge and out of sight. It was a design flaw that the Republic was working on even now, for when the seals were not engaged, it was not so difficult to knock a clone's helmet off. A sharp jab with enough force in the right place could leave a man's head vulnerable.

The two men traded blows until at last 5869 managed to back-pedal just out of arm's reach, in and out, up and over the interconnected molds.

They stood staring at each other, both in fighting stances.

"You know you can't beat me," CT-7567 said with the same cockiness that 5869 had witnessed up on the observation ring.

"The goal isn't to beat you," 5869 replied. "The goal is to plant the flag."

"Huh, do you think either squad is trying to plant the flag now? Or are they back to fighting each other?" 7567 asked. "That's what the cadre wanted: a good fight."

"Yes, and that good fight was only a distraction to steer us away from the objective," 5869 said.

CT-7567 paused and considered his words for a moment. "You know, you're right. If the goal is to plant the flag, everything we do should be geared towards that objective. This _is_ a distraction." For a split-second, a wicked grin flashed across his face. "And I like it!" He shouted as he sprang forward, catching 5869 around the waist and taking him down.

As he pounded away, he burst out in punctuated fragments, "I don't!—even care!—if we win!—or not! This is my!—kind of!—battle!"

It was at that moment that CT-5869 realized that his opponent was speaking no more than the truth. CT-7567 _was_ enjoying this bout of hand-to-hand combat. And there could be no wondering why: the man was damned good at it.

Though identical in size, it did not take 5869 long to realize that 7567 had several advantages. The first was his unorthodox manner of fighting, switching styles with every punch and counterpunch, advancing when he should have retreated and retreating when he should have advanced. The second was his superior strength. While all clones had the same genetic makeup, giving them the same build in general, a clone could increase his strength just as any other creature could: through exercise and diet. It was clear to 5869 that, although 7567 did not appear bulky and muscle-bound, the muscle mass beneath the armor was, even if only a small bit, superior to his own. And lastly, CT-7567's mindset was irrepressible. The man wanted to fight, wanted to show his skills, and he had confidence in his abilities. He knew what he could do, and he had no fear in doing it.

Despite the fact that he was the adversary at the moment, CT-5869 could not help but feel a great admiration for CT-7567. Admiration of skills and determination, yes; but also admiration for the way he had so quickly made himself an almost indispensable part of his squad.

Call it charisma. Call it leadership. Call it heroism. Whatever it was, CT-7567 had it, and it inspired confidence in the men who comprised his squad. And even the men who did not comprise his squad.

For his own part, CT-7567 was astounded that he had come up against a man who was, if not his equal in hand-to-hand, at least a formidable challenge. CT-5869 had stamina, quick reflexes, and the sort of never-say-die attitude that 7567 imagined must be a prerequisite for CG duty. How different it must be to fight to protect lives from immediate danger as opposed to fighting to take ground or destroy enemy capabilities. The idea of literally standing between the enemy and another living being—even if that being was a politician or diplomat—had to entail a sense of urgency and the willingness to sacrifice your own life in the most literal connotation.

CT-7567 was certain it was not the sort of duty he would be any good at. He was a field soldier, a man best suited to combat beside his brothers, fighting to keep _them_ alive as much as fighting to take or hold a piece of alien soil.

And even though they were pitted against each other in this scenario, CT-7567 was already beginning to think that CT-5869 was the sort of man he would gladly call brother, even beyond the genetic meaning.

Up ahead, he could see the funnel through which the molten liquid was pouring into the molds. He figured he had no more than thirty seconds to end this contest. The question was, how to end it?

He needed only a second to make his decision. He had already worn his opponent down; perseverance was all that remained.

He pressed his gauntleted forearm against 5869's throat, bearing through 5869's resistance until it grew feeble and then stopped completely. He stayed on top of him, carefully exerting just enough pressure to keep his foe unconscious. Then, as the mold upon which they were lying was positioned under the funnel, he leapt back and prepared to let the trace-trackers do their job.

But when the funnel opened, CT-7567 inexplicably found himself lunging forward. He grabbed 5869 by the legs and yanked him back, out from under the funnel. Still confounded by his own actions, CT-7567 hoisted the man up over his shoulder, looked over the side at another line of cooling vats filled with water below, and jumped.

 _ ***Again, I do enjoy writing how the clones view each other. I like the idea of Stone and Rex admiring each other, despite how different their missions are. Anyone who's ever been in the military knows that's not always the case!**_


	55. Chapter 54

**_Dear Reader, This is a nice, short chapter to close out the Range 9 scenarios. Thanks to my reviewers. I appreciate it very much, as it keeps me motivated to keep posting! Peace, CS_**

Chapter 54 Rising

" _Every satiety is accompanied by a desire."_

 _Lift Up Your Heart  
_ Bishop Fulton Sheen

* * *

CT-7567 drew himself up out of the water, keeping one gloved hand clenched around the top of CT-5869's back armor plate. He slung his arm over the rim of the wooden vat and hung there for several long seconds, catching his breath.

There was movement beside him as CT-5869 regained consciousness.

"What the hell happened? We're in the water?" 5869 asked, shaking his head to clear it.

"I, uh, I got soft," CT-7567 replied with a self-deprecating smile. "I was going to let the melted steel do you in, but something came over me." He shrugged. "Don't ask: I don't really understand it myself."

"You're saying you pulled me out of there?" 5869 asked, his voice bordering on doubt.

"Hard to believe, I know."

5869 nodded slowly, swinging an arm up to hold himself above the water and gingerly running his fingers over his throat with the other hand. "Yes, it _is_ hard to believe."

CT-7567 beamed. "Now, if this had been a real world situation, and you were a true enemy, I wouldn't have done it. I wouldn't have spared you." A pause. "I guess the thought of molten liquid pouring down on top of you—even if it isn't real—well, that would be too gruesome."

CT-5869 looked back at him, and there was a wariness in his gaze that made his stupefaction a bit less glaring. "So, now we're both in the cooling vats," he stated. "Are we still enemies?"

"I think, for the purposes of the scenario, yes," came the reply. "But maybe we can take your suggestion and just . . . move past each other." A pause, as he leaned close. "We don't have to give the cadre everything they want, enh?" he said in a low voice.

"Do you think our squads are up there _moving past each other_?" CT-5869 challenged. "I'm sure they're battling it out now that the first shot's been fired."

"Then it's a race between you and me," 7567 rejoined. "What do you say?"

CT-5869 considered for several seconds. At last, he replied, "Let's do it."

The two men hoisted themselves on the vat's edge using nothing but brute strength.

"On my mark?" 7567 posed.

5869 nodded.

CT-7567 flashed an intense smile. "May the best man win. Go!"

* * *

"There they go," Captain Dart, Echo's senior controller, noted with mirth. "Going against the rules we set for them."

"That's not exactly accurate," Colonel Claw corrected. "They had a face-to-face encounter, and they decided to call a truce between the two of them in order to try and win the objective. It's not a bad strategy – just not something that would ever work against a droid."

"They're forgetting about the rest of their squads," Commander Steed pointed out. "Do you think that's because they each want to be the hero or because they truly believe this is the best way to gain the objective?"

"That's hard to say," Colonel Claw allowed. "They're two highly ambitious men who both want to be the victor. But as CT-7567 said, if this had been real-world, this situation wouldn't even exist: he would have killed his enemy. This seems to be . . . more of a game to him now."

One of the technicians spoke up with a wily grin. "I could add some excitement to that game."

Colonel Claw shook his head slowly. "No, no. Let the two of them go unimpeded. Let's see which one wins . . . and how they feel about the costs of that victory. Focus on the remaining men in the battle; by the time it's over, I want them all taken down. If you need to manipulate the battle, you have my permission to do so."

"Yes, Sir!"

* * *

Up on the observation ring, the rest of the trainees were watching with heightened interest.

For twenty minutes they followed not only the squads' progress against each other, but also the headway of the two _soloists_ , if they could be so labelled. The scenario was a fitting challenge, for there were so many variables that a man could not possibly account for all of them.

As the squad numbers dwindled, there was some little concern on both sides as to where their missing men were; but the action was too fast-paced for much consideration to be given.

As for CT-7567 and CT-5869, they were both discovering that navigating the obstacles inside a droid foundry was just as difficult single-handed as with the protection and power of numbers of a squad.

For the observers, it was hard to decide which part of the scenario was the most exciting to watch; although some knew exactly where their interest lay.

"Damn, it's going to be close," CT-3636 said through gritted teeth, as if he himself were running through the greased and oiled labyrinths, dodging the stamps and lathes and presses.

"Why aren't they throwing any obstacles in their paths?" CT-5052 sneered. "The controllers are making it too easy on them. The rest of their squads are blasting the drips out of each other, and those two aren't faced with anything more than . . . timing their way past machinery."

"They'll be the only ones left alive when this one's over," CT-1004 ventured.

Cody was circumspect. "CT-7567 says his one and only goal is to win."

CT-1004 grinned. "He says a lot of things."

"I think he meant this one," Cody deferred.

CT-1004 shrugged. "He has more heart than you think."

At this, CT-3636 let out a great guffaw. "Yeah, a heart for victory, no matter what the cost."

"No. No, that's not true," 1004 protested. "He does like to win, yes. But he's—he always used to . . . " He fell silent, as if it suddenly occurred to him that he was on the verge of saying something that it was not his place to say.

"What? He used to what?" 3636 pressed as Cody and the others looked on expectantly.

CT-1004 frowned. "He's not what you think he is," was all he would allow.

"What? He's not an egomaniac with delusions of grandeur?" 3636 scoffed.

Cody smiled as he put a hand on 3636's shoulder. "I think that's a bit over-the-top."

"Why? He _is_ an egomaniac," 3636 insisted.

"He's competitive, and he has reason to be self-assured," Cody stated evenly. "He's good. I don't think any of us can deny that based on what we've seen so far."

CT-5052 interjected. "And it looks like he's about to win."

Sixty seconds later, CT-7567 had arrived at the objective.

Without the flag.

And no more than a minute later on the other end, CT-5869 arrived at his objective.

And he, too, was without the flag.

The scenario ended without a victor.

* * *

CT-7567 entered the med-bay, and the first one of his squad-mates he encountered was his squad leader.

CT-2025 actually began to laugh. "Fek and all, you could have at least—when you left us all behind—you could have at least remembered that you didn't have the flag."

"I know, I know," 7567 conceded, shaking his head with what might be mild humiliation but could just as easily be humor at his own ridiculous failure. "I'm not sure why it didn't occur to me—"

"I can tell you exactly why it didn't occur to you." This came from Captain Spicer as he entered the place to check on his Echo Squad trainees.

CT-7567 came to attention. "Sir!"

CT-2025, who had been sitting on the edge of an examination bed, scooted to his feet.

"CT-2025, sit back down. You haven't been cleared yet," Spicer ordered. "7567, come with me."

CT-7567 followed his squad advisor out of the med-bay and into the corridor.

"Explain your thinking to me," Spicer said directly.

"My thinking, Sir?"

"Your thinking in that last scenario."

"I was thinking that I wanted my squad to win," came the reply.

"You mean the squad you left behind to get slaughtered while you ran off on your personal quest for victory?" Spicer drilled.

"They didn't get slaughtered, Sir," CT-7567 resisted. "They were involved in a firefight, and both sides were defeated. The only two people who had a chance were me and CT-5869."

"So, the two of you decided to toss the scenario and turn it into a two-man contest," Spicer accused.

"That wasn't the plan," 7567 said. "It turned out that way, but that wasn't the way I went into it. The rest of the squad and I knew that we were going to have a firefight, and I was looking forward to it—"

"Looking forward to it?"

"I like to try my skills, Sir."

"Hm, and your skills weren't able to prevent the rest of your qwsquad from getting killed," Spicer challenged. "And on top of that, you didn't even have the flag. They died for nothing."

"I didn't do it on purpose," CT-7567 insisted. "I just got caught up in the moment—"

"Are you going to treat the entire six weeks like a game?"

For the first time, Captain Spicer saw something flicker in the lieutenant's eyes. A blink of insult? A grain of defensiveness? Perhaps even a jot of hurt feelings?

The captain latched onto the possibility.

"Because I find it hard to believe that anyone—even you—would be so dismissive of the risks of his actions in a war-time environment." A pause. "So, I wonder if you're going to take any of this training seriously. Are you?"

"I do take it seriously, Sir," 7567 replied with conviction. "I take it very seriously."

"I'm not sure I believe that," Spicer said. "But you'll have plenty of opportunities to show me your intentions." He paused and stared hard at him. "You came here as a highly recommended trainee, but you're not a sure thing. You want to wear the pauldron and the kama, you have to earn it. It's not going to just fall into your lap." He tilted his head and studied him. "I'm not even sure you really want to be here." He drew closer. "There are a lot of soldiers who would consider it an honor to be accepted into ARC training. You seem to think that _we_ should be honored by _your_ presence. Believe me, if you'd rather be back with the 729th, we can put you on the next shuttle."

"Sir, you—you misunderstand me," 7567 protested. "I do want to be here. And I—want to be the best."

"The best what?"

"The best . . . everything. I want to be the best at everything I do," 7567 replied.

Captain Spicer absorbed this and was silent a long time before speaking. "That's admirable. But keep in mind, CT-7567, this isn't about you. You're an officer, and Force willing, you just might squeak out of these six weeks as an ARC trooper. That means your responsibility isn't just to yourself. It's also to your men. You should already know that."

"I do, Sir," CT-7567 insisted. "I'd do all in my power to protect my men."

Spicer could sense there was more that the lieutenant was not saying. He prompted him to go on. "But?"

"We _are_ soldiers," 7567 replied. "We can't decide to throw a mission in order to save ourselves. Our purpose is to win wars. Some of us—a lot of us—will die in pursuit of that goal."

The captain was silent for a moment, hearing the sincerity in 7567's words; and it occurred to him that what he was seeing on the surface was not the sum total of what lay in the man's heart.

"That's true," he said at last. "But here's what you need to keep in mind: it can't be all one way or the other. You have to find the right balance between completing the mission and protecting your men. Sacrificing your men in an unwinnable situation isn't good leadership, and it's not praise-worthy. And most important: you're not the center of the universe." He waited several seconds before asking, "Is there anything more you want to say?"

"No, Sir," CT-7567 replied in a voice that was quiet but not necessarily chastened.

"Very well, then. Dismissed."

He watched as the lieutenant turned smartly and headed back to the med-bay; and despite the impromptu counseling session, he could not help but admire him for his enthusiasm and determination, even if his judgment might still need some development.

" _That will come along,"_ he thought, then with a smile, added, _"Unless he gets himself kicked out first."_

 **Again, some foreboding of Umbara.**


	56. Chapter 55

_Dear Reader, I forgot to mention that CT-1993 is none other than Commander Jet of Point Rain fame (you know, the guy who's leading the flame-throwers!). I will be updating the character listing in the next day or two. I realize there are a lot of numbers floating around. Soon, some of them will acquire their actual names. I think you'll recognize how one gets his name in this chapter . . . Peace, CS_

Chapter 55 Close Quarters Combat

" _A soldier cannot always count on being bigger and stronger than the enemy. He should, therefore, never try to oppose the enemy in a direct test of strength. Supple misdirection of the enemy's strength allows superior technique and fight strategy to overcome superior strength."_

U.S Army Field Manual 3-25.150, U.S. Army Combatives

* * *

The afternoon was spent reviewing and critiquing each squad's performance in the various scenarios. Most commentary was purely observational; although when pressed for suggestions on how each squad could have handled its scenario better, there was no shortage of recommendations.

It was not part of the Jango Fett template to be wilting and withdrawn. Some clones may have had a certain reticence about them – perhaps even a degree of shyness – but when it came to giving their opinions during after-action reviews, each man was willing to put forth his own ideas on what had gone right, what had gone wrong, and what could be improved. And if a man were to become an ARC trooper, he could scarcely afford to shrink away from such open criticism – both giving and receiving.

Surprisingly, CT-7567 contributed little to the review. He sat with his squad, listening intently as the others spoke, occasionally jotting down an item of interest or two on his data pad. He sat in rapt attention as each squad leader gave his reasons for taking the chosen course of action, and he made internal note of the input and reaction of the other squad members. Had they agreed with their leader's decisions? Did they appear disgusted at the outcome wrought by those decisions? Did they harbor unspoken resentments that their own ideas were not implemented? Did they see themselves as a team yet? Or were they still, on this first exercise on the first day, simply a collection of competing souls?

And to be sure, he was forming many pictures in his head of just what his fellow trainees were like, what they were made of, their strengths and weaknesses. It was a habit of his, for CT-7567 knew that winning battles came down to more than sheer numbers and weaponry. It involved study, observation, getting into the enemy's head as well as knowing the character of the men serving beside you. For while he might consider it an advantage to be formed from the same genetic cloth as the men around him, he also knew that each one of them was as different from the other as the leaves on a tree. Each had his own spots and blotches. Some had been blown by the same wind but to different effect. Each was clinging to a source of life and strength—what CT-7567 liked to call _the brotherhood_ —knowing that the seasons were moving rapidly, yet their motivations were varied. Their joys were not identical, nor their sorrows. Their loves, their hates, the things that made them laugh, the injuries that drove their angers – all different, all unique.

And CT-7567 had realized, even as a cadet, that the best way to reach a man was to gain a knowledge and understanding of him. In the same way, knowledge and understanding were the best bets for defeating an enemy.

In this case, the enemy just happened to be brothers, and so CT-7567 devoted himself to listening and observing during the review – even when the topic rolled around to Echo Squad and his own performance in both scenarios, despite the fact that he had not been the squad leader.

He might have been provoked into defending himself, but to everyone's surprise, he let even CT-5052's critique go unanswered – for the most part.

CT-5052 had gone straight for the jetpack issue. "One small miscalculation, and flooding the afterburners could have killed your entire squad."

It was CT-2025 who came to his squad mate's defense. "Half of us were already out of the area. True, there might have been an explosion and men would have been killed, but that still would have bought us the time we needed to get to the objective."

"But you didn't take the objective with the men you had," CT-3636 pointed out. "You needed the men who'd stayed behind. If they'd been killed, you wouldn't have won."

CT-390 spoke up. "He didn't miscalculate, the place didn't get blown up, and we were successful. Sometimes, you have to take a chance. If you play it safe the whole time, you're going to lose a lot of battles."

CT-5052 scowled. "I know all about losing battles. I know that there's no room for heroes on the battlefield. You're either a team or you're not."

Commander Steed interrupted the back-and-forth. "I find that a very interesting comment, CT-5052. Why would you say there's no room for heroes on the battlefield?"

CT-5052 seemed to struggle for a moment before answering with tight control, "Because heroes are all about _me, I._ Winning battles takes more than one man."

Steed regarded him with thoughtful intrigue. "Don't you think that sometimes one man can make the difference?"

"He can make the difference, but . . . he won't win the battle on his own. An army of one is no army at all," came the rather heated response. It was clear that something about the topic was churning through 5052's gut. He added with a sharp vehemence, "Batchers stick together. Squads stick together. Platoons stick together."

"Unless victory depends on them splitting up." This, spoken with calm rationality, came from Commander Cody. He went on with the quiet authority that his reputation warranted. "Under ideal circumstances, yes, we would stick together. There is, after all, strength in numbers." A pause. "But I don't see the correlation between calling someone a hero and the decision that a squad needs to split up in order to achieve the mission. To me, any soldier who sacrifices his own life to save others is a hero, whether the mission is a success or not. You can still be a hero in a losing battle. All of us who have been on the front lines knows that there's a decision point. It's the man who avoids making the decision who fails."

At these words, CT-7567 saw Cody send a brief glance in his direction. Peculiar, considering the former had earlier accused the commander of just that sort of indecisiveness.

Regardless of whether the commander was conveying a cryptic acknowledgment of his own failing, CT-5052 was not finished with his criticism, "I'm not sure CT-7567 goes through that rigorous a thought process when he's making his decisions."

"That's why I depend on guys like CT-2025 to keep me from going off the deep end." It was one of the few times CT-7567 spoke during the review. "I know my weaknesses."

Here, Major Tides stepped in. "Knowing your weaknesses isn't enough. You have to work on eliminating them." He looked to the room full of trainees. "And I'm not saying this to just CT-7567; this goes for all of you. Whatever faults you came here with, you won't leave as an ARC trooper and still be dragging those faults along behind you. You either eliminate them or you don't graduate." He paused. "And if you think I'm joking . . . just take a look at our washout rate."

* * *

"Interesting AAR, enh?" CT-7567 asked, tossing his data pad onto the bed and immediately setting to the task of removing his armor.

"Interesting in that you hardly said a word," Cody replied with a chuckle. "I wondered if you'd forgotten Basic." He, too, began removing his armor.

They had 90 minutes to change in their utility uniforms, grab some dinner, and be in place in the Balto Lecture Hall for the evening's tutorial on non-computer-aided navigation, a six-part series that would move from the lecture hall to the lab to actual real-world navigation. It was a subject every clone learned at a very rudimentary level as a senior cadet; but for ARC troopers, often operating in isolation and under clandestine circumstances, the necessity to plot trajectories and pinpoint locations using only the crudest of materials and the repository of knowledge in their brains was of utmost criticality.

"I was more interested in listening," came the reply. "You can learn a lot by hearing what others have to say."

Cody's chuckle now transformed into a laugh. "That's not something I'd expect to hear coming from you."

CT-7567 feigned non-comprehension, and Cody played along. "You love to hear yourself talk."

CT-7567 deferred, "I don't love to _hear_ myself talk. I just love to talk." He stripped down to his body glove. "Speaking of talking . . . were you speaking of yourself when you said that stuff about the one who doesn't decide is the one who fails?"

Cody was only mildly stunned by his roommate's audacity. He was more surprised at just how quickly he was adapting to the artless, graceless nature of CT-7567.

"I was speaking in generalities," he replied.

"Oh. It's just that you looked at me funny."

Cody shook his head. "Maybe I did. But it wasn't because of _my_ failings."

"Well, it couldn't have been about my failings," CT-7567 protested with teasing glee. "I never hesitate. And my squad won."

"Won the first and lost the second—"

"Both squads lost the second—"

"The point is . . . I was speaking in general terms. It's like Major Tides said: we all have weaknesses. The goal is to overcome them," Cody emphasized. He slapped his roommate on the shoulder. "One of your weaknesses is, you like to argue where there is no argument." A smile. "I'm first in the shower."

* * *

" _By the Force and every unknown god, this is . . . impossible. I can't even keep my attention focused. Why do we need to know this stuff when there's a computer everywhere we turn? There's one on every ship. There's one in our helmet. Every droid is just one big computer. If I don't have a computer around to calculate the jump to hyperspace for me, I'm sure as hell not going to trust my own calculations. This is ridiculous. When will we ever have to use this kind of knowledge?"_

Such was CT-7567's internal dialogue, and it went on ad nauseum as he sat in the lecture hall, listening to one of the instructors, another clone who had introduced himself with the crassly obvious name of Astro.

On the screen behind the instructor, image after image of formulas, example star charts, and the occasional animated illustration of some procedure or other filled the next two hours with enough numbers and symbols that CT-7567 was returned mentally to the days of his cadethood; and he had hated the subject just as much back then.

Fighting was what he was about. Doing battle. Strategizing. Tactical planning. Leading the way. Pushing the boundaries.

This . . . technical stuff . . .

It was better left to the machines that were designed to handle such tasks.

In the lecture hall, the trainees sat where they pleased, not necessarily by squad. As such, CT-7567 had stayed with his roommate, and he could not help but notice that Cody was studiously taking notes, fully focused on the presentation, and nodding his silent comprehension every few minutes.

It wasn't that CT-7567 was not focused on the lecture. Indeed, he was; it was just that he felt a sense of pointlessness; and that pointlessness, he attributed to his disinterest, for when would such skills truly be needed? What difference did it make if he wasn't any good at it? And anything he wasn't good at could not possibly be important, could it?

When the lecture ended at 2100 hours, the trainees had free time until lights out at 2300.

"Are you going back to the room?" CT-7567 asked as they left the hall.

"To the gym."

"I'll go with you."

"Only if you promise not to critique my workout," Cody grinned.

"Neh, I'll leave that to 3636."

* * *

The next several days passed in a whirlwind.

Training on new weapons systems. Tactical planning sessions using Range 9 to test out the results. A one-day course on diplomacy and inter-planetary relations (at which CT-5869 excelled). Two days of underwater training and operations. Continued lectures and lab training on interstellar navigation. A fitness regime that pushed even these—the fittest clone troopers—to the brink of their abilities.

And on day 9, hand-to-hand combat training and sparring – to a degree far beyond anything taught as cadets.

The instruction was conducted, not in squads but in the group as a whole. The clones were paired one-on-one, rotating through several different partners, for instruction covering martial arts, modern army combatives, brawling techniques, and close quarters combat using sticks, knives, and whatever could be found to hand.

It came as no surprise to anyone that CT-7567 was already well beyond advanced in each of the areas. He was swift, versatile, and brutal in his matchups, taking his opponents out with seeming ease and obvious glee. This kind of fighting appealed to him, and he made no secret of his desire to show how skilled he was.

At one point, he found himself sparring with CT-1993, squad leader for Gander and a good fighter in his own right.

CT-1993 was a Galactic Marine assigned to the 83d Marine Expeditionary Unit, and he was certainly not a man to take lightly. He served under Jedi General Ki-Adi-Mundi and was as dedicated to the war effort as a man could be; but the whole idea of leaving the battlefield to come to ARC training had not set well with him, and it was only his general's insistence that had brought him here. However, now that he was here, he had every intention of representing his outfit with pride and honor. He thought the universe of General Mundi, and he wanted to be sure of bringing credit upon his general through his own performance.

As he squared off against CT-7567, that thought was in the back of his mind, and he considered that his opponent was a worthy adversary from what he'd seen so far.

"Free style," announced the sergeant major in charge of combatives. "Starting positions. Begin!"

CT-1993 had already decided he would wait for CT-7567 to make the first move, to close the distance between them. He had seen enough of his opponent's previous spars to recognize that 7567 could not bear long before going for the clinch, although he'd shown great variety in the manner of clinches and take-downs he'd used. He'd also noted that CT-7567 was lightning fast, had a long striking range due to a fuller arm extension than most of his fellow trainees practiced. He was willing to open himself for a split-second in order to go for a punch if he could not get an immediate clinch, and what often started as a punch morphed into a clinch if it appeared the blow would not land.

And so CT-1993 stood off and waited for CT-7567 to come to him. What he had not anticipated was that his opponent would approach as if to make a clinch and at the last moment, sweep his leg up into a sidekick followed by a back mount that almost drove 1993 to his stomach. He just barely managed to stay on his hands and knees, but this did not work to his advantage. CT-7567 slid one arm around 1993's throat and the other under his shoulder, gripping the top of the breastplate of his armor. He jerked him backwards into a sitting position and wrapped his legs around his waist.

CT-1993's hands went up to the arm around his neck, and at the same time as trying to pull 7567's arm away, he forced himself into a leanback and then used his legs to execute a rollover. The rollover was successful but that was as far as he got, for 7567 immediately leveraged into a crouch, threw 1993 over his shoulder and then delivered a flat handed chop to the crook of the neck, pulling back on the thrust of the move at the last instant in what was clearly a victory.

CT-7567 smiled down at his opponent and extended his hand.

CT-1993 accepted and got to his feet, shaking his head. "Cripes, I didn't even last thirty seconds."

"Oh, it was longer than that," 7567 replied.

"I wasn't expecting you to start with a kick," 1993 admitted. "You have a long reach, so I was expecting a punch, and then when you started to close with me—"

"I threw you off your game," 7567 winked. "I like to be unpredictable. I think hand-to-hand might be my strongest area."

"Is that so?" This challenge came, not from CT-1993 but from the sergeant major.

CT-7567 turned and, despite the fact that he outranked the man, given that this was a training environment and he was the trainee, he came to attention and replied with courtesy and more than a bit of bravado. "I _am_ good at it, Sergeant Major. I've had a lot of first-hand experience."

"Let's see just how good you are," the sergeant major smiled. Then, raising his voice, he called, out, "Everyone on the perimeter! Move, gentlemen!"

Once the trainees were arranged around the edges of the mat, the sergeant major called CT-7567 into the center.

"Time for a little friendly competition," he announced. "Watching you all just now, I observed that most of you are adequate fighters. Adequate isn't good enough to be an ARC trooper, but I've still got four more weeks to improve your performance." A pause. "I did see a few, uh, diamonds in the rough, so to speak. CT-7567 here thinks he's the best, and at the moment, I tend to agree with him. Is there anyone who wants to challenge that claim?"

There were no volunteers. The situation had arisen so unexpectedly that the lack of takers had less to do with the men's confidence in their abilities to defeat CT-7567 than it did with the surprise of being asked to take place in a spectator match in front of the entire class.

"Huh, a bunch of little dainties, is that it? No skin off my back, girls," the sergeant major scoffed. "I kept my eye on the ones who showed promise, so I'll pick my own volunteers." He strode over to stand in front of CT-2025.

"You're up, bright eyes," he said.

CT-2025 balked. "We're in the same squad—"

"Not for the purposes of this exercise, you aren't," the sergeant major rejected. "And this isn't a request. Get out here."

CT-2025 walked over to where CT-7567 stood waiting, the latter seeming not a bit perturbed at the idea of going up against his squad mate, the former giving a shrug to acknowledge he was not particularly thrilled at the prospect of fighting a man whose prowess everyone had already acknowledged.

In the center of the mat was a circle 6 meters in diameter and outside of that, a square 12 meters in diameter. Beyond that, the edge of the mat, where the observers stood, was 15 meters across. For competitions, which area of the mat was permissible was determined by the type of combat. But being that this was not a bona fide competition but rather a friendly head-to-head full demonstration of battlefield techniques, the entire mat was open for use.

"Hm, I think a nice way to kick this off would be with a demonstration from our template's own fighting style," the sergeant major began. "Let's see how good you both are at Mandolorian Iviin'yc Nynir." He was referring to a form of close quarters combat made famous by the inhabitants of the planet of Mandalore, a race with a heroic warrior past and a reputation for ruthless efficiency on the battlefield. Of course, those were bygone days. Mandalore had in the recent past shrunk to a shadow of its former glory, its queen—a committed pacifist—trading strength away for a vague notion of peace that involved what many of her own people considered too high a price in acceptable losses.

The clone trooper progenitor, Jango Fett, had adopted the gear and techniques of the Mandalorian warriors (among many other techniques); and he himself had taught the first wave of his progeny the methods the Mandalorians had used to such great success.

Iviin'yc Nynir, translated into Basic as _Lightning Strike,_ was a method that most closely resembled bare-knuckled boxing and high-strike kicking. It was not as artful and graceful as many other fighting methods; it was not meant to be. It had only one purpose, and that was to take an enemy down as quickly as possible with little risk of injury to self.

The sergeant major had noticed CT-2025's outstanding command of the discipline, and that was why he had chosen the particular method of combat for this matchup.

"This isn't a points-based contest," he announced. "You will have to go for a knockout or takedown and pin. Upper body armor off. You have the full mat. Positions on the circle."

CT-7567 and 2025 stripped down to their body gloves from the waist up and took their places.

"Starting positions. FIGHT!"

CT-2025 had barely even absorbed the command before CT-7567 had closed with him, lunging and taking him around the waist with one arm and behind the knee with the other hand, pulling forward and collapsing the leg. As CT-2025 fell onto his back, he tried to draw his other leg up into a position where he could push 7567 off with his foot; but 7567's body was flush against his own and he could not get his leg in between them. He felt 7567's knee wedged tightly against his crotch, preventing him from sliding downward; and 7567's fingers were clenched around his neck.

CT-2025 reached for the hands at his neck, trying to loosen his opponent's hold, but a grey haze was coming on quickly . . . this wasn't going to work. He had to try something else. Instead of attempting to slide down against the knee in his groin, he jerked in the other direction, bucked violently twice in rapid succession, throwing CT-7567 off-balance, at which point he was able to finally get his foot in between them and push him away.

Gasping to catch his breath, he scrabbled backwards, hoping to get out of range of any immediate follow-on attack. Such a follow-on would have been the normal course of action, but it was not what CT-7567 did.

Instead, CT-7567 got to his feet, not quite as fast as would have been expected, his right hand pressed against his lower right ribcage where 2025 had pushed him off.

" _He's injured,"_ 2025 noted silently. _"He's going to favor that right side."_ He wasted no time in spinning forward into a back-fly roundhouse kick, aiming for the same spot, only to find his momentum carrying him through the air with no contact as 7567 sprang aside.

Now with his back to his opponent, 2025 found himself crashing face-first to the ground with CT-7567 on top of him.

CT-7567 slipped his arms under 2025's shoulders, drawing his arms back and at the same time, pressing his knee once more between his legs against the tailbone, now fully preventing him from sliding up or down. He locked his fingers together behind 2025's neck.

"If you keep fighting, I'll dislocate both shoulders," he warned.

"Match!" The sergeant major called out.

CT-7567 released his hold, got his feet and helped his squad mate up. "Good move getting out of my first hold. I wasn't expecting that, bucking around like a Hebrides colt."

CT-2025 grimaced. "You fooled me. You pretended you'd been hurt."

"You should know never to trust an adversary," 7567 said with a smile. "Especially someone like me." He turned to the sergeant major. "Who's next?"

The sergeant major felt a warm mix of affection and umbrage at the blatant fearlessness and overflowing confidence facing him. A part of him wished that all trainees had such surety; but there was also a part of him that feared the foolhardiness that was often an accompaniment to such surety.

A call for volunteers again turned up no one, and so the sergeant major made his own selection.

CT-3636.

Standing nearby, Cody could not help but wonder if the sergeant major had known just how fraught with peril his selection was, for in the past nine days, the disdain CT-3636 had for CT-7567 had become ever more evident. In some inexplicable way, it seemed that 3636 had come into ARC training with an eye of criticality that missed no shortcoming, overlooked no foible, and admitted no superiority in any of his fellow trainees. But while he looked upon all his classmates with a certain condescension, he seemed to reserve his greatest contempt for CT-7567.

And perhaps it was part of 7567's nature not to notice such things, but it seemed that he was, at the very least, unwilling to respond to the cold shoulder and sarcastic remarks cast in his direction.

Indeed, Cody had spent the past nine days trying to understand what made his roommate tick; but just when he'd thought he'd figured it out, the next day would dawn and bring with it some new, heretofore unknown, motivator; and Cody felt himself no closer to knowing his roommate and, in fact, tumbled into greater confusion than the day before. Still, he had begun to admit to himself that he enjoyed CT-7567's company. He enjoyed his enthusiasm and had developed his own methods of curbing that enthusiasm when it got overbearing. He was starting to appreciate CT-7567's sense of humor; but even more, he was recognizing that he had been paired with someone whose skills as a soldier were beyond those he had seen in any other clone; a man to whom leadership seemed to come naturally; a man who wanted to appear immovable but who wore his heart on his sleeve if one knew to look for it.

Now, as Cody watched CT-3636 step forward to the circle, he was already feeling sorry for the commander, for he was certain that the captain was about to defeat him . . . and 3636 did not take well to defeat.

"Findish martial arts," the sergeant major decreed, referring to a method of combat that involved straight-hand work, flying kicks and highly controlled precision moves. "Again, knockout or takedown and pin." A pause. "Starting positions. Begin!"

Unlike in the previous bout, this time CT-7567 hung back, not even making a feint, waiting for CT-3636 to come after him; and when he did, CT-7567 willingly absorbed the blow—a spinning side kick that impacted him just above the hipbone—then hopping back a few steps as CT-3636 regained his stance.

CT-3636 was pleased with the landed strike, but he was not fooled into thinking that his prowess alone had resulted in the connect. He'd seen CT-7567 fight, and he knew that the kick would not have found such an easy landing. CT-7567 had allowed the contact, though to what end, CT-3636 did not know. He was tempted to press his advantage, except that he was not sure it was an advantage at all.

" _It'd be just like him to toy with me,"_ he thought. _"Well, I'm not going to fall for it. I'm not going to rush in there and embarrass myself."_

The two circled slowly until, at last, CT-7567, with incredible speed, sprang forward within striking range, directed one closed-fist brawl-style punch directly between his opponent's eyes but without making contact, then leaped back out of range.

"What the—this is supposed to be Findish!" CT-3636 accused angrily.

"Sorry 'bout that," CT-7567 quipped without sounding in the least apologetic. "I thought the point was to win."

CT-3636 looked to the sergeant major. "Are we obeying the rules or is this a free-for-all?"

The sergeant major didn't even try to hide his amusement. "CT-7567, Findish only."

"Yes, Sergeant Major."

CT-7567 faced CT-3636 once more and there was no mistaking the glint in his eye, and that glint only provoked 3636's fury. He would not be made a fool of.

Almost immediately he feinted a lunge that caused 7567 to jump back, following up with a rear kick that missed the target completely when 7567 side-stepped and sprang towards him, grabbing his leg and twisting, upending 3636 and dropping him hard to the mat.

But CT-3636 was an accomplished fighter in his own right, and he did not waste a second. No sooner had he hit the ground than he thrust his foot out, his heel smashing into 7567's jaw and snapping his head back.

CT-7567, however, did not retreat. Instead, he scrabbled towards 3636, clearly intent on trying to keep him on the floor; but 3636 was recovered and in one forceful leap, he pounced on top of 7567 and began delivering blows.

Yet, his frustration level was quickly reaching its limit, for CT-7567 seemed to easily deflect every punch. And in that frustration, CT-3636 made a crucial mistake. Instead of going for the choke, his focus on a punching victory left him open for CT-7567, with both arms free, to reach up and get hold of his left arm. He then drew his knee up and trapped 3636's left foot against his body with his own foot.

As soon as CT-3636 felt his foot being pressed inwards towards his opponent's body, he knew he'd made a mistake; but CT-7567's exploitation of that weakness had been so quick, 3636 had had no chance to counter. CT-7567 pushed him straight up, and with the same-side arm and leg immobile and useless, he toppled onto his side.

CT-7567 rolled over and aimed a flat-handed chop that CT-3636 deflected at the last instant. As 7567 tried to get the mount, he found himself forced into a sloppy sort of wrestling match, with the advantage switching from man to man with each roll across the mat. At one point as he was beneath 3636, with his opponent's head next to his, he said in a low voice, "You know you can't beat me."

CT-3636's reply was simple. "I'm about to."

"You don't stand a chance."

CT-36363's rejoinder was less gracious. "Screw you."

In the next revolution across the floor, CT-7567 disengaged just enough to tempt his adversary into trying to regain his feet; but when 3636 took the bait, 7567 struck out with his foot, hitting the back of the knee and causing 3636 to stumble and fall onto all fours. CT-7567 then launched himself from his down position into a scissored armbar, exerting only enough pressure to cause pain and not injury.

CT-3636 let out with a bark—more surprise than pain. But he was not ready to concede yet. He tried to push back into his opponent to lessen the stress on his arms, but 7567 had anticipated the move and firmly braced himself with one foot pressed out behind him.

In what might have been his most impudent moment thus far, CT-7567 looked up to the sergeant major. "None of this is Findish, but neither was all that rolling around on the ground. I figured CT-3636 wouldn't mind one more episode of breaking the rules."

A buzz of snickers could be heard in the room.

Cody, though inwardly smiling, sighed and shook his head. _"Why do you humiliate the man, Blondie?"_ He used the moniker only in the silence of his own thoughts or occasionally when it was just he and 7567, and he wanted to get under his roommate's skin. " _3636 isn't an enemy. He's the kind you'd want on your side. Show some graciousness and let him lose with dignity."_

But the words had already been spoken, the fun had been made at 3636's expense.

"Match, CT-7567."

At that, 7567 released his hold; but when he offered his hand to his opponent to help him to his feet, he was met with a cold refusal. Instead, CT-3636 stood directly in front of him, their faces centimeters apart. "You can cheat in training, but you can't cheat on the battlefield."

"There are no rules on the battlefield," came the calm response, in essence, a challenge. "If you can't win when there are rules in place to protect you, how do you expect to win when there are no rules?"

"The match is over, trainees," the sergeant major pointed out. "CT-3636, back to the line." He waited until 3636 had resumed his place, then he spoke. "CT-7567 is right. There are no rules on the battlefield. The goal is to make sure your enemy dies and you live. Form and points and style mean nothing when someone is trying to kill you. You do whatever it takes to stay alive. Your blaster isn't always going to be in your hand. As much as certain factions in the leadership might want to convince you that all battle is now done long-range and without ever seeing the enemy, that kind of kripe comes from people who have never been on the battlefield. We know better. We know that you come face-to-face with the enemy more often than not, and you're just as likely to encounter alien races as you are battle droids. And when that happens, you need to defeat them, no matter how it's done." A pause. "With that in mind, our next round will be free style." He looked to CT-7567. "How are you holding up? You still think you're a one-man army?"

"Bring it on, Sergeant Major," came the cocky response. "I'll take all comers."

The sergeant major shook his head. "Just a few more. I want to see if anyone _can_ beat you." He asked again for volunteers, and again received none. So, this time he chose none other than CT-5052, yet another clone who had little love for CT-7567.

From the sidelines, Cody, however, was not surprised at this choice. If the sergeant major wanted to see a good, evenly matched bout, this would certainly fit the bill. Cody had caught sight of CT-5052 in his sparring matches, and there could be no doubt that he was one of the best in the class. Perhaps it was because he harbored such bitterness and negativity that he could channel into his attacks; or it might be the patient way in which he allowed his opponent to be lulled into a lax stance. Whatever it was, CT-5052 was a brilliant close quarters combatant; and given his dislike of CT-7567, the match should present an added vehemence.

And that, it did. The onlookers were not disappointed.

CT-5052 came off the line like a raging gundark, driving 7567 back to the mat's edge with a series of roundhouse and flying kicks, wheeling arm slices, and even an aerial somersault culminating in a thrust kick. None of the maneuvers made contact, but that had not been their purpose. They had been undertaken with the sole intention of putting 7567 on the defense and forcing a rapid retreat on this opening salvo.

Trapped at the corner of the mat, CT-7567 yelled to the sergeant major. "No rules?"

Almost as if reading 7567's mind, the sergeant major replied, "Stay within the perimeter."

CT-5052 feinted a punch then followed with a leg sweep; but 7567 dove over his leg and out of the corner, rolled over and came up on his feet, immediately executing a blind mule kick to prevent his opponent from a rear attack. He turned just in time to see CT-5052 springing towards him, going for a frontal takedown.

The textbook defense against such a move would have been to allow himself to be pushed down and then use his foot and his opponent's momentum to launch him over his head. Instead, CT-7567 took a neat step to one side, clasped his hands together, and brought them thundering down in the center of 5052's back as he sailed past.

CT-5052 hit the mat hard, the wind knocked out of him. He did not immediately gasp for air. Training and experience had taught him that defense must come first and slow controlled breaths would help him recover faster than desperate gulps. He rolled onto his back, his left arm automatically going into a straightarm to ward off any potential incoming attack. A good decision, considering CT-7567 was bearing down on him.

CT-5052 swung his leg up, catching 7567 in the side and knocking him down. That tactic gave 5052 the couple seconds he needed to get to his feet, put some distance between them, and recover his breath.

Now, he would do what he did best. Wait for his adversary to make a mistake.

CT-5052 had made his physical conditioning a point of pride. He worked extensively with weights in pursuit of increasing his strength; and he felt confident that if any of his fellow clones should attempt to close with him, he could overpower them by sheet brute force and the extra weight in muscle he'd acquired.

He'd given a stunning opening run, and now if he presented as being somewhat shaky and wearied by the exertion, he trusted his instincts that a man like CT-7567 would leap at the chance to exploit that weakness.

But that was not what happened.

CT-7567 slowly, cautiously sidled along the outer edge of the mat, being sure to stay well out of 5052's striking reach.

Perplexed, 5052 altered his plan. He inched carefully closer but all the while continuing to display an affected unsteadiness.

CT-7567 grinned. "You don't fool me. I saw how you defeated your opponents. You're going to need more than the one trick you have in your bag, because I'm not falling for it.

CT-5052 felt the ire rise in his heart, flooding his face with warmth, and tensing every muscle. "Why don't you just stop yakking and close with me? I don't need any tricks to beat you."

"Ladies," the sergeant interrupted with droll chastisement, "This isn't a stroll through spring flowers. Either get in there or the match is called."

"My pleasure," CT-7567 grunted. He bounced forward with his fists up. His preferred method of fighting was straightforward brawling – punching like a boxer while absorbing body blows – in an effort to wear down his opponent. He could pack incredible power into the small surface of his knuckles; and with his extended reach, he could land a lot of hits while coming away relatively unscathed.

He had nothing but confidence as he closed with his opponent; but getting past CT-5052's guard was not as easy as he'd anticipated, for 5052 also had a long reach. And while 7567 was gearing his attack towards a boxing style, 5052 was open to whatever method availed itself from moment to moment. CT-7567 might have a long arm reach, but CT-5052's leg reach was far greater, and he had no qualms about striking the gut, the chest . . . he even drove one foot thrust into his opponent's chin.

To be sure, he was paying the price. For every hit that landed, two would miss; and it was following those misses that CT-7567 would spring in, deliver a body blow or a head jab, and then leap back out of arm's range.

This exchange went on for nearly two minutes until both men were sporting various cuts and bruises, but neither seeming anywhere near defeat.

The rest of the trainees were shouting and cheering, not necessarily for one or the other of the combatants. They were cheering the contest itself, the good and bad moves, the near take-downs, the escapes . . . everything.

Cody watched in silence, observing, taking mental note of both men's fighting styles.

CT-5052 was handling himself just as he had noted earlier: precise, tricky, and strong enough to be able to trade a fair amount of abuse in order to close with his adversary. But he was also determined, resolute in his desire for victory, so that even when his plans did not work out the way he wanted, he was able to switch to some other mode in order to come out on top.

As for CT-7567, Cody could hardly form a cogent review. There was no rhyme or reason to his methods. In fact, if Cody were any judge, he would have said that his roommate simply did whatever occurred to him at the moment; there was no pre-determined strategy. He was capricious and reactionary.

And it seemed to be that reactionary quality that was making the difference between victory and defeat. He now opted to step back for a breather, but CT-5052 was having none of it and pursued him relentlessly with a combination of spinning punches and kicks, lunges, and body feints. Yet, CT-7567 never lost his cool, never seemed to be anything more than harried. He effectively blocked every strike, and made no attempt to work in a counter-punch or effect any kind of offense.

On the sideline, Cody watched with narrowed eyes. _"He's playing with him. He's got something up his sleeve,"_ he said to himself. _"Be careful, 7567 . . . don't draw this out too long, or he's going to snag you."_

But then the element of surprise came into the picture. CT-7567 had backed up to the edge of the mat. The crowd of observers stepped away as the violence moved towards them.

CT-7567's upper body armor lay on the mat just beyond the line. It was towards this that he had been working his way. Now, he reached over the line, grabbed the breastplate, still connected to the back plate, and swung it side-arm with the momentum of turning his entire body.

Completely unexpected, CT-5052 was caught squarely in the shoulder and went careening to the mat. And suddenly, CT-7567 had gone from retreating defender to advancing aggressor. He slammed down on top of 5052's back, trapped his left arm behind him and executed a rear chokehold.

CT-5052 attempted a break lock. He heard 7567's voice in his ear.

"I don't want to make you pass out, but I will," he hissed. "Stop fighting, or I'll do it."

CT-5052's only response was to continue struggling.

CT-7567 increased the pressure at his throat.

The sounds began to fade, the room grew dim . . .

"Match," the sergeant major announced.

CT-7567 eased up. Beneath him, CT-5052 began coughing as he found himself able to breathe again.

"Come on, I'll help you up," he offered. "That was a good fight—"

CT-5052 pushed his helpful arm aside. "I can get up, myself."

CT-7567 was noticeably surprised by his reaction, but he did not press him. CT-7567 straightened up and moved away to give 5052 plenty of room to get up on his own.

The sergeant major approached him. "He had you on your heels. Using the armor was a good idea."

"Thank you, Sergeant Major."

"You up for one more?"

CT-7567 beamed. "I get the feeling you're just waiting for me to meet my match, hoping I'll learn some humility."

"I have no illusion of you ever learning humility," the sergeant major said with a straight face. "I just want you to see that there are others who can challenge you. You're not unbeatable."

CT-7567 said nothing. He felt it would not be apropos to point out that he had, in fact, won all his matches thus far. Instead, he waited while 5052 got to his feet and was met by several of his squad mates and his roommate, all with words of praise and congratulations, despite his loss.

"Everyone, back to the line," the sergeant major ordered. "We're going to give it one more go, see if we can find anyone capable of toppling our victor from his perch."

There was a moment of quiet before a voice rose from the assembled men.

"I'd like to try my hand."

All eyes turned as the volunteer stepped into the square, removing his upper armor.

The sergeant major's face took on a look of pleased anticipation. "Well, this should be an interesting matchup."

CT-7567's smile spread from ear to ear. "Very interesting."

"Starting positions."

The two men took up their places.

"You won't hold it against me when I beat you, will you, Commander?" CT-7567 asked.

Cody regarded him with his own manner of smugness. "I never hold a grudge. I hope you can say the same."

* * *

AAR: after action report

Feel free to leave a review. I'd appreciate it.


	57. Chapter 56

Thanks to my reviewers! Much appreciated. And to my unnamed guest . . . some prescient ideas, as you will see! Peace,CS

Chapter 56 Predictability

" _It isn't that they can't see the solution. It is that they can't see the problem."_

G.K. Chesterton

* * *

"We'll make this one free style, as well," the sergeant major announced. "And just to keep it clean, no use of outside objects. Bodies only, gentlemen."

"At least he didn't call us ladies," CT-7567 quipped.

"Not yet," the sergeant major stated. "I'll reserve that for the end of the match – if it's warranted." He paused. "Fighting positions. Begin!"

CT-7567 had been hoping since the first day of training to have an opportunity to go up against his roommate, to test his skills against a man considered to be one of, if not _the_ , best clone trooper in the entire GAR. He looked upon this challenge as a chance to show what he could do and perhaps to make an impression upon his roommate . . .

. . . as if he had not already been making multiple impressions on him since the moment they'd met.

CT-7567 never let himself forget Cody's assignment to the 212th, so closely aligned with the 501st. If there was even the least chance that the commander might come away from ARC training with the idea that a fellow trainee might be a good fit for Skywalker's unit, CT-7567 would do everything in his power to prove that he was that trainee.

Of course, CT-7567 conceded that defeating the commander in a hand-to-hand fight could work against him, cause Cody to detest him, and cement a resolve to never, under any circumstances, allow him to become a part of that elite unit to which he aspired.

Still, throwing a match was absolutely out of the question. CT-7567 was too competitive, too prideful to give anything less than his best and his all. He had been hoping that such qualities would put him in good stead with Commander Cody, and yet his own mercurial nature bubbled up to the surface often enough to muddy the waters. He was quite certain that Cody did not know what to think of him.

And that could play to his advantage in this contest.

Facing the commander now, he had never seen such a credible _Skrebid*_ face. There were no discernible emotions, no window into his thoughts, no wordless harbinger of contemplated action. Not a single clue as to how to proceed.

Across from him, Cody assumed a semi-crouching stance with his hands open and loose at mid-chest. He side-stepped along the perimeter of the circle, never taking his eyes from his opponent's. He sensed intuitively that 7567 was waiting for him to make the first move. And that was what he intended to do, but only on his own terms. He could offer up just enough to draw 7567 in, just enough to get him started and on the offensive. Cody had a plan, but to put that plan into action, he needed to incite his roommate. A little provocation would likely do the job.

He made a shallow lunge on his right leg, swiping out with the same arm – an almost taunting move. Then as CT-7567 stepped back, Cody made another lightning non-strike.

" _One more . . . one more and he won't be able to hold himself back,"_ the commander said to himself. _"Add a little grist to the fire . . . "_ He spun into a backward roundhouse kick, making a breathy, hissing noise as he did so, sounding as if he were channeling a demon spirit.

His prediction now showed itself to be correct, for CT-7567 came after him with the speed and energy of a man fresh into his first battle as opposed to a man slogging through his tenth or twelfth confrontation in the last four hours.

For a moment, Cody wondered if he might have made a mistake in provoking him. Watching CT-7567 fight was one thing; being pitted against him . . . quite another.

What one could see as an observer was that 7567 was stronger than average; what one encountered as an opponent was that 7567 knew how to combine that strength with an agility that made him even more formidable. What one noticed from the sidelines was that 7567 was fast; what one had to contend with face-to-face was that rapidity at close quarters, making it almost impossible to take in the action within the narrowed range of vision.

Cody had known before volunteering that he would either have to maintain enough distance to keep the entirety of CT-7567's body in sight, every part of which presented as a weapon; or he would have to go for a clinch and keep him so close that the contest devolved into wrestling.

And he had opted for the first course of action. He'd noticed early on in the combat training that CT-7567's predominant fighting method was that of a swarmer, keeping up a level of pressure in his onslaught that wore his opponents down while he, with his superior stamina, was able to take them down after a prolonged barrage. But even though that was his predominant style, it certainly did not define the man as a fighter. CT-7567 was unpredictable, followed none of the rules for breaking holds, immobilizing the enemy, or minimizing injury to self; and he sure as hell didn't give a Kowakian monkey-lizard's ass about maintaining the integrity of form.

Cody would let CT-7567 chase him around the mat until fatigue began to peck away at that incredible endurance. The commander didn't need him exhausted; he only needed him a few notches down from where he was now. A few well-timed taunts would keep him coming. Then it would be little more than a matter of timing. For while Cody might be impressed with his roommate's ability, he knew that strategy always prevailed over strength, oftentimes over skill.

And, if by some fluke, CT-7567 should defeat him . . . well, Cody could live with that, too.

He retreated calmly from a storm of kicks and punches, blocking and parrying, throwing in the occasional counterpunch for good measure.

" _Just keep comin', Blondie."_ Cody found that by not expecting any particular moves, by responding in a purely reactionary manner, he was well able to keep ahead of his adversary. And the beauty of it was that CT-7567 didn't realize he was being led by the nose down the very path the commander had planned for him.

Or did he?

After nearly a minute of unproductive offense, CT-7567 stopped advancing. He maintained a ready position as a wicked smile spread across his face.

"You plan on just running away from me the whole time?" he scoffed. "This hardly qualifies as a fight."

Cody did not bother to answer. Then, much to his surprise, he saw 7567 dive towards him. Given the slew of punches and kicks, this maneuver did catch him off-guard. He barely managed to side-step out of the way, but that did not mean he was clear. CT-7567, as he landed on his stomach, swept out his right arm and caught the commander around the ankle. One fierce yank, and Cody stumbled, his hands hitting the floor.

He tried to pull his foot free, but 7567 had a hold like a vise; and not only that, but he now had both hands around the ankle and was forcefully pulling the commander towards him.

Cody flipped sideways onto his back, swinging his free leg out in a wide arc that just barely missed making contact with 7567's head. He followed quickly with a flat-footed jab again aimed towards the head, but 7567 freed up one hand from its hold on his ankle and absorbed the blow with the palm of his hand. He thrust Cody's leg aside, released his hold on the ankle and launched from his kneeling position into a blanketing move that he quickly turned into a front mount, from which he began punching.

But now Cody used on him the same technique 7567 had used on CT-3636 – trap and roll. Cody grabbed 7567's left arm with both hands, slid his right foot up to trap 7567's left foot, thrust upwards and rolled over, coming up on top, kneeling between his opponent's legs. He felt those legs wrap around his waist, but this was where the commander's own ruthlessness came into play.

He bent his right arm up towards his face, grabbed hold of his right wrist with his left hand to give himself more power, and drove his elbow down into 7567's gut, right above the plate.

CT-7567 grunted, coughed once, and actually spat up bile. Cody took advantage of the moment to slide up between his legs and execute a full front mount.

CT-7567, however, recovered quickly; and planting his elbows on the ground at his sides, he prevented the commander from sliding up any higher up on his body. Cody did not waist a second before pelting him with punches to the face, but only two landed before CT-7567 raised his hips, causing the commander to tip forward; and before Cody could regain his balance and retreat, CT-7567 had lifted his head high enough off the mat to deliver an effective head butt.

Momentarily stunned and propelled back by the force of the blow, Cody toppled awkwardly to the side; but CT-7567 was also a bit dazed from his own move. He backpedalled instead of getting directly to his feet, feeling that he needed the few extra seconds to regain his senses and equilibrium. He shifted to his hands and knees and was about to push up to his feet when, this time, he was taken from behind.

Commander Cody dug his fingers under the rubbery neck of the body glove and yanked 7567 backwards off his knees and onto the mat. The commander pressed in behind him, both men in seated positions, and wrapped his legs around the lieutenant's waist. He immediately slipped his arms under 7567's shoulders and drew his arms back.

CT-7567, through sheer strength, began pushing backwards with his legs, scooting both himself and the commander across the floor, until he was actually driving the commander down under his back.

Cody realized that, if he didn't let go, he was going to end up being overpowered and on the bottom. At the moment, he still had CT-7567's back to his chest, which meant he still had the upper hand. He released his opponent's arms, and using his legs, pushed himself up until his groin was against 7567's neck; and then he contracted his legs around his throat in a headlock. Curling forward, he used both hands to cover 7567's mouth and nose, cutting off his air.

Now, he only had to hold on. CT-7567 had been breathing hard. It would be less than 30 seconds before he passed out.

CT-7567 could barely get his arms around Cody's legs to reach the hands suffocating him. He clawed at whatever his fingers could make contact with: the commander's armor, his body glove, the backs of his hands, but to no avail.

There followed several spasms, last attempts to draw air.

Then he was still.

"Match," the sergeant major announced.

Cody released his hold.

CT-7567 gasped and choked and coughed. The hands that had, seconds before, been killing him now were slapping his face gently. Cody's voice came to him like water tinkling in a cave. "Come on . . . breathe slowly . . . that's it."

He opened his eyes, saw Cody sitting still partially wrapped around him, and he knew he'd been defeated. But instead of feeling vanquished, a sense of pride settled in his veins - not pride in himself, but pride in his roommate.

"Impossible," he murmured. "You can't have beaten me."

"It wasn't pretty, but it was a victory," Cody replied.

CT-7567 sat up slowly as the commander untangled himself to assist. "I want a rematch," the lieutenant stated hoarsely.

It was the sergeant major who interjected, "You'll have plenty of time for rematches over the next four-and-a-half weeks."

"I agree," Cody said, getting into a crouch and putting an arm around his roommate's waist. With CT-7567's arm over his shoulder, he stood up, and with the air of two well-worn battle buddies, he led him back to the perimeter. "Not that I'd want to make a habit of it," he grinned. "I think I'm going to be sore for a week."

Bravo and Echo Squads gathered around them, offering congratulations to both of them.

Cody felt a sense of satisfaction as he watched CT-7567 absorb the attention without any hint of embarrassment or, more surprisingly, self-importance. He did not appear humbled by the loss, nor angry nor bitter. He was magnanimous in defeat – something Cody would never have expected.

" _A change for the better,"_ he noted inwardly. _"We may make it through this together after all, Blondie."_

* * *

That evening after dinner, Cody met with his squad to discuss a group exercise they would be doing the next day. After two hours of pouring over the operations order, they called it a night with still an hour to go until lights out.

Upon returning to his room, the commander found it empty. He didn't have to wonder where CT-7567 had gone. After the combat training that morning, the afternoon had been filled with both a seminar on non-conventional tactics and another session of free navigation instruction. Another agonizing lesson in confusion and frustration for CT-7567. When the class had ended, instead of joining the rest of the class in the mess hall, CT-7567 had gone back to his room and buried his face in the star charts with his data pad at hand for his calculations. He was still there when Cody had returned from dinner before going to meet his squad.

But he was not here now, and Cody had an idea or two of where he might be.

His first stop was the Star Dome lab, a spherical room with programmable star charts meant to mimic looking at a real sky. Across the diameter of the sphere, a clear floor stretched to all points, allowing the student to be able to see the starscape below as well as above him. There were a dozen hover consoles that could be moved about the floor for use in their work.

Cody's instincts proved correct, for he found CT-7567 in the lab, data pad in one hand, his other hand pressing buttons on one of the consoles.

"I thought I'd find you here," he said, walking up to stand beside him. "Still at it?"

CT-7567 sighed. "I don't understand why this is so hard for me." He set the data pad down on the console and crossed his arms over his chest. He did not look at his companion. "I've always picked up on new things just like that. I'm crap at this."

"Why don't you take a break?"

"Taking a break isn't going to get the job done," came the frowning reply.

"Neither is trying to cram more in when you're already exhausted—"

"I'm not exhausted," CT-7567 protested with a scowl. "I could have fought twenty more men—"

"I meant mentally exhausted," Cody pressed. "Give it a break and come back to it with fresh eyes tomorrow. I'll help you if you like."

"I've never needed help with anything," 7567 replied. "I'm not going to start now."

" _Stubborn pod-brick,"_ Cody mused silently, invoking a term the clones used to describe a hard-headed, recalcitrant member of their ranks. But outwardly, he reached over and picked up the data pad, put a hand on his roommate's shoulder and got him moving towards the door. "You need help with learning how to turn down the intensity when it's not needed. I think you're the type who never relaxes between battles."

"I'm not much for relaxing," 7567 admitted, though he sounded pleased with the fact. Before leaving the dome, he stopped and turned to face the commander.

"How did you do it? How did you beat me?"

"Have you been stewing about that all day?" Cody asked. "I thought you'd taken the defeat very well."

"It's been on my mind."

Cody considered before answering. He decided to go with the direct, earnest route. "I beat you because you're predictable."

Clearly, this was not what CT-7567 had expected to hear. "Predictable? Enh, you're not being serious. I'm completely _unpredictable_. That's what everyone says. I _try_ to be unpredictable. Now, you're going to tell me I'm not?"

"You asked me how I beat you. Do you want my answer or not?" A pause. "Good. When I say you're predictable, I mean that your unpredictability is predictable."

"That doesn't make any sense—"

"It makes perfect sense. Just try to listen to what I'm saying," Cody chastised. "If you're going to blow off every rule of combatives, all your enemy has to do is go into a reactionary mode and wait for an opening. They can't anticipate your actions, so they don't. What seems like being on defense is really just them waiting for you to drop your guard. On the other hand, if you do what's expected fifty percent of the time, your opponent has no way of knowing when to expect the orthodox moves and when to expect the deviations. He doesn't know whether to act or react." A pause. "I just waited for you to get frustrated, and you did." A chuckle. "I admit I was surprised when you dove at me. I had let my expectations creep in. I thought you were going to just going to continue to advance, and I was going to continue to retreat until you got sloppy. That never happened."

"And here, I thought you were just being indecisive again," CT-7567 quipped.

"Not at all," Cody replied, resuming his push out the door. "But there is something called luck, and it was on my side this time."

CT-7567 grinned. "Nothing wrong with luck, as long as it results in victory."

"My thoughts exactly."

* * *

*Skrebid is just a name I made up to be the equivalent of "poker" - "poker face".

The Kowakian monkey lizard is what Salacious Crumb is!


	58. Chapter 57

_**Dear Reader, thank you to my reviewers. The idea for this chapter came from a story Richard Adams related in his autobiography, The Day Gone By, about parachute training. But my own take on it developed from a conversation I had with Richard Adams where he told me, in very glowing terms, of his fondness for Captain Kavanagh, his fellow officer upon whom the character of Bigwig in Watership Down was modeled. Enjoy! Peace, CS p.s., I also updated the character listing.**_

Chapter 57 Mayotta and the Parachute Jump

 _"The thing that made him such a good airborne officer was that he had no fear of jumping, In fact, I believe I am safe in saying that he loved it in a way that very few of his fellow officers ever understood. It was a challenge, and he loved challenges. But he always spoke of jumping in terms of freedom. I'd never met anyone like him in that sense."_

Richard Adams (as transcribed in a private conversation with the author)

* * *

The two weeks on Kamino were over.

The ARC trainees and most of the staff loaded onto a small troop transport for the trip to Mayotta where they would meet up with the rest of the cadre for the final four weeks of training. The journey was a standard eight hours at light speed, and the transport arrived in the evening twilight.

Mayotta was a planet of varied terrains and climates, the majority of which were uninhabited. There were several population centers, all of which were located good distances from the Republic training facilities. Before ARC training had moved part of its curriculum to the planet, Mayotta had already been in use by the GAR for the basic training survival course. It was still used for that purpose and had thousands of clones rotating through every three days onto more than a hundred outdoor ranges.

The installation was massive, covering well over 500,000 acres, including the extensive outdoor training areas in addition to the base proper and its structures, and a space port.

As the ARC trainees were led by squad through the facilities towards their barracks, their squad advisors pointed out areas of interest: the dining facilities, main briefing rooms, the gyms, recreation areas.

"You're keeping the same rooming arrangement as on Kamino," Captain Spicer announced to Echo Squad. "And I think you'll find these rooms to be very satisfactory, a little more spacious than what you had on Kamino. Of course, you won't be spending much time in them."

They came to a fair-sized hangar-type room, large enough to accommodate all 80 trainees and the cadre, though of the latter, only the squad advisors, Major Tides, and Commander Steed were present. Here, a generalized briefing was given, covering administrative details and the like. Room numbers were assigned, and the trainees were given a scant couple minutes to deposit their meager belongs into their rooms before reassembling in the hangar.

Once they were all gathered together again, Commander Steed began going over the rules, including not leaving the base without permission, the upcoming training schedule, and the uneasy fact that Mayotta was usually the start of the washouts.

As he spoke, Colonel Claw entered the room with at least two dozen men, some of whom had come from Kamino, but most of whom were unfamiliar to the trainees.

Commander Steed relinquished the floor to Colonel Claw.

"I would like to introduce the Mayotta side of the cadre," he began. "You'll all remember Captain Dart and Captain Biz, our senior controllers from Kamino. Well, they're here because if you thought Range 9 was impressive, wait until you see Range 14-B. It's three times the size of Range 9, and these two gentlemen head the control teams here just as they did on Kamino. It's true that most of your training will be held outdoors in natural environments, but there will still be at least two simulated combat situations using 14-B." He continued with the introductions, concluding with the head of the E&E (Escape and Evasion) team.

"Captain Skidz run the E&E course here on Mayotta, and it's as close as you will get to a realistic POW environment. These men are some of the best in the business, and they have plenty of experience running this operation." A pause, then he added with wry humor. "The good news is that E&E will be one of the last training modules; so you have the next three weeks to look forward to it."

The briefing went on for another twenty minutes and ended with a release to the dining facility.

As the trainees headed for chow, CT-7567 found CT-1004 edging beside him.

" _Captain Skidz_?" the MP put forth, sounding skeptical.

CT-7567 simpered. "Yeah, surprise. I wasn't expecting to see him here. And not with a name like that—not with any name, if you want to know the truth."

On his other side, Cody spoke up. "You know him?"

"Yeah, I know him. We both do," 7567 replied. "But when we knew him, he was CT-4901."

CT-1004 nodded. "He's not exactly our favorite guy."

"Batcher?" Cody inquired.

"Pod-mate," CT-1004 replied. "And a self-centered son-of-a-bitch. Not the kind of guy I would have expected to see as an ARC trainer."

Cody was intrigued. "Okay, what's the history here?"

CT-1004 looked to 7567, who shrugged.

"He was a very competitive cadet," 1004 began.

"Unlike the two of you," Cody interrupted with a poking grin.

"We might be competitive, but there was a difference," 1004 replied. "If we lost a contest, we didn't hold it against our opponent. 4901 took every loss personally and was well-known for holding grudges." He paused. "He, uh, he didn't like my friend here very much." He slapped 7567 on the shoulder.

Cody did not try to hide his smile. "How could anyone not like CT-7567?"

CT-7567, for the first time since Cody had met him, appeared to take on an affected air of nonchalance. "I wanted to be the best in the pod. 4901 wanted to be the best in the pod. We mixed it up a lot. Both of us wanted to be commissioned into front-line combat units. We were both competing for elite assignments. He went to the 9014th Insertion Squadron. I went to the 729th. Getting assigned to the 9014th was a great achievement, but . . . he was going there as a staff officer. I was going to the 729th as a platoon leader. That didn't sit well with him. But here he is now, an ARC training officer. He has to be pretty satisfied with the way things turned out."

CT-1004 made a doubtful noise. "You always were the eternal optimist."

"It pays to be optimistic," 7567 noted. "Even where CT-4901 is concerned." He gave a closed-mouth laugh. "I guess we'll have to start calling him Captain Skidz."

"Hmph! I suppose so," 1004 conceded. "Maybe we won't have too much interaction with him."

"You sound like _you're_ holding a grudge," 7567 pointed out to his friend.

"Maybe. 4901 played dirty. We both know that. You should know that better than anyone else," 1004 stated. "He did everything he could do push you out of your 729th assignment."

"Yeah, but he didn't succeed," 7567 replied. "Besides, it's all in the past now."

* * *

"Where did you get that?"

It was the third night since coming to Mayotta, and Cody could hardly believe what he was seeing in his room.

CT-7567 was sitting at the large desk they both shared. And on top of that desk there sat a partly disassembled jetpack.

"I asked the chief supply officer," came the reply.

"And he let you have one? After what you did on Range 9?" Cody was incredulous.

"I told them I'm participating in the ARC Improvement Competition."

"You are?"

"Absolutely."

He was referring to a program in each ARC class where any trainees who desired could choose an area to improve in the war-fighting effort: weaponry, tactics, skills sets. If any of their recommendations were accepted, it was certainly a boon; but it could also elevate them to a higher position in graduate rank and even have an impact on their unit of assignment upon course completion.

But for CT-7567, it was simply an opportunity for him to work on something in which he'd always been interested. Jetpacks were more than utilitarian to CT-7567; they were a hobby. And as far as he was concerned, not used nearly enough on the battlefield. In fact, he enjoyed rocketeering almost as much as parachuting, although the latter was even more rarely employed. He'd heard that ARC training had a module on advanced parachuting, and he was looking forward to it. But in the meantime, he had ideas on what he thought a jetpack should be able to do; and now he had the time and opportunity to try putting some of those ideas into action.

"And your project involves jetpacks?" Cody asked.

"Yep," CT-7567 answered.

"What are you trying to do? What do you want to improve?" The commander leaned against the wall next to the desk.

"I want to increase speed. Improve control at higher speeds. Better directional controls." He took an electro-pinch and began making minute adjustments to one of the fuel injectors.

"I never took you for the mechanical type," Cody noted.

"I link to tinker with things," 7567 replied. "Mostly propulsion systems – including jetpacks. But, uh, I'll play around with weapons, too."

"Hm, well, you're not going to flood the afterburners and blow up our room and the whole barracks block, are you?" the commander asked with a teasing glint in his eye.

"I don't intend to," 7567 replied. "But accidents happen."

Cody laughed. "That's a great load off my mind." A pause. "You know, the others are all counting on me to keep you from getting carried away."

CT-7567 looked up with a challenge. "I'm not sure you're up to that task. You can't be wishy-washy and expect to keep up with me."

Cody crossed his arms and simpered. "The only part of you I may not be able to keep up with is your ego." A pause, then he changed the subject. "Doesn't your squad have HALO training tomorrow?"

"First thing in the morning," 7567 confirmed. "We're going up with Falcon Squad."

"You're not going to try pushing the envelope, are you?" Cody asked.

"Of course," 7567 replied. "A chute deployment below 900 meters . . . that would be an achievement, wouldn't it?"

"If you survived it," Cody said. "And is it really useful?"

"The less time under the canopy, the less time an enemy has to shoot at you. It's hard to hit a target coming down at a high rate of speed," 7567 explained. "Once the chute is deployed and descent slows down, we're vulnerable."

"True, but an opening below 900 meters might not be enough to slow you down before impact," Cody pointed out. "It's not worth the attempt, Blondie."

"You know, if we could have backup jet packs in case the chutes failed—"

"Then we wouldn't need chutes at all," Cody cut him off. "Jetpacks have signatures, and they're more easily detected. Making a jetpack burn during a parachute jump would defeat the purpose of parachuting."

"Yes, but as a failsafe—"

"Even a short burn could end up being a give-away. If even one team member had a chute failure and used a jetpack, that would warn the enemy." Cody eyed him. "You're not going to try jumping with both, are you?"

"I was thinking about it—"

"Don't. We went up yesterday, and let me tell you, the landing zones are already difficult enough. Don't add to it by trying to sneak something past the jumpmasters."

CT-7567 smiled. "What makes you think I would do something against the rules?"

"You can't be serious."

"I haven't broken any rules," CT-7567 replied with surety. "I've just done things that . . . have never been addressed in the rules before."

"There's no point in talking to you," Cody gave up . "You don't listen to anyone but yourself."

"That's not true," CT-7567 protested light-heartedly. "I listen to anyone who says what I want to hear."

Cody shook his head. "You're impossible."

* * *

The following day.

"This is the worst part. I hate packing these things," CT-9090 grumbled, spreading out his parachute on the tarmac back at the launch point after the first jump.

Echo and Falcon Squads had gone up together in the same gunship. The first jump had been from 5,000 meters onto a dune-like landing zone. All had gone well, and now the trainees were repacking their chutes for the second jump. It was a time-consuming and tedious task that required focus and patience.

"You and me both," CT-7567 agreed. "It would be great if there was a faster way to do this. You'd think they'd have a droid or some other machine that could do this in one-tenth the time."

"Don't they? I thought they were having us repack them just as part of ARC training, one of those useless disciplines they employ to teach us patience or something," CT-1448 put forth.

"No," CT-7567 educated him. "Parachutes are always packed by hand, never by machine or artificial intelligence. The best situation is for a jumper to pack his own."

"You sound like you have a lot of experience," CT-390 said.

"Well, we do a bit more jumping in the 729th than in most units," CT-7567 replied. "As ground-pounders, we have to get under enemy radar without being detected. There are a lot of ways to do that. My commanding officer's preferred way of doing so is by getting a lightly armed unit on the ground first to take out the enemy's detection systems. He's a big fan of jumping, so I've had a bit of experience, though not nearly enough to satisfy me. I love jumping. The higher the altitude, the better."

CT-2025 chuckled. "I had a feeling you were crazy."

"Then I'm in good company," 7567 quipped in return.

When the repack was complete, the riggers came through, checked and rechecked everyone's work.

The second jump was from 8,000 meters over a wooded area with narrow insertion points – meadows and dart-like flood plains. Both squads went up together. Another flawless execution.

For the third jump, the riggers had the trainees check each other's packing job before going through to conduct their own final check.

CT-7567 checked CT-8462's chute.

"The arming device isn't properly aligned," he pointed out. "It's because your slider isn't proper packed. It's bunched up a bit here . . . it needs to be more folded. You should disconnect the arming device and repack the slider so it fits better."

CT-8462, as a Shinie, had no practical experience jumping, and even less packing a parachute. Under 7567's watchful eye, he made the adjustments to the slider and set to reconnecting the arming device. "Kripes, this is still hard to . . . connect."

"Here, let me help." Between the two of them, they pulled the two ends of the fastener together. "There, it's aligned now, but be sure to have the rigger check when he comes by," CT-7567 instructed.

"Will do."

* * *

"Jumpers, ready!" The jumpmaster held up his hands, palms forward.

"Final check!"

The trainees turned in pairs and performed final equipment checks.

CT-7567 pressed the arming button on his wristband. The red light turned blue, indicating the deployment kicker was charged. This jump, from 11,000 meters, required a supplemental oxygen cell and fully sealed body armor.

"One second intervals! Jumpers, hit it! Go!"

The first man was out the door.

"Go!" One second later, the next man was free-falling through space.

As CT-7567 moved up to the doorway, he felt his pulse quickening with each beat. The anticipation was rivaled only by the thrill he knew was coming. He came to the opening, drew in a trembling, excited breath, and leaped out into . . . freedom.

CT-7567 never felt freer than when he was jumping. Up here, no one ruled over him. Only gravity and the laws of the universe. Up here, he was no longer a mere implement of war, subject to the commands of those who had ordered his creation. He was his own man, with sole responsibility for what happened to him for the next two minutes of free-fall. He was not a warrior, a soldier . . . a clone bred for combat. He was a bird, seeing life as only the birds did, if only for a short period of time.

" _I wish this could last forever,"_ he mused wistfully. _"There's no other feeling like this."_

He reached terminal velocity, and the recollection of his conversation with Cody flashed across his mind. He'd be reaching 900 meters altitude in a minute and a half. The thought of attempting a chute deployment at an even lower altitude was tempting; but in some inexplicable way, he felt he owed it to his roommate to be prudent. And so he decided to just enjoy the view and the sensation of freedom.

Then suddenly, the peace of the high places was shattered by a distress call over his helmet's open channel.

"My indicator light just went red! I repeat, my indicator is red!"

The jumpmaster's voice came calmly over the channel. "Call number?"

"CT-8462! My light's gone red!"

"What's your altitude, 8462?" This again from the jumpmaster.

"Uh-uh-passing through-passing through 6,100!"

"Try to deploy your chute."

There followed a silence of no more than three seconds, then CT-8462's voice once again. "It's not deploying! Mayday! Mayday! The reserve chute isn't deploying either! There's no—Mayday!"

"It's the arming device!" CT-7567 shouted into his helmet. "It must have come loose!" Below him, he could see 8462 frantically clawing at his wrist control panel. "8462, Spread eagle and drag! I'm not far behind! Create as much drag as you can! I'm going to catch up to you!"

Far above them all, the jumpmaster, who had exited the gunship last, had no chance of reaching the endangered trainee.

"Who is that going after him?" he asked.

"7567! I can reach him! I'm going arrow—"

"CT-7567, if you can't catch him before 1,500 meters, you are to abort the attempt—"

"I'll catch him!"

CT-7567 angled himself into a head-first dive, arms tight at his side. His speed increased dramatically as the numbers flew by in his HUD. "I'm getting closer!"

"Hurry! Hurry!"

"Don't panic! Stay spread-eagle, you've got to give me a chance to get to you!"

"I'm passing through 4,000!"

"I'm almost there!" Despite his words, CT-7567 felt as if he were a world away and there was not enough time to cover the distance. He was moving at such a speed that he wondered if his body could handle the stress; but he would find out soon enough.

Thirty seconds later, he was close enough that he could see the red light on his squad mate's wrist, and he had to forcefully push aside the guilty fact that he himself had checked over CT-8462's pack job. There would be time to beat himself up for that later. Right now, he had to do this. He couldn't fail. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he let this man die.

"Almost there! Almost!" He let his arms out a fraction, slowing his fall. He drew within twenty meters.

"2,000!"

"I'm right behind you! I'm going to go for a grab! Stay in position!"

"Hurry! By the Force, hurry!"

CT -7567 drew up behind him and put his arms and legs wide. He was right behind him now. He reached down and tried to grab him, missing again and again.

"Fifteen hundred!"

"I can't get a grip!" 7567 shouted. "I—I'm going to make a bump! Don't lose your form! I have to come in faster!" He drew in his arms once again, instantly accelerating and smashing into 8462's back.

To his credit, 8462 kept his attitude and form.

CT-7567 wrapped his legs around 8462's waist and locked his ankles in front, hooked his arms under his shoulders and grasped his harness. In his HUD, he saw the numbers scroll below 800. They were running out of altitude. "I can't hold onto you and press the deployment button at the same time! You're going to have to—"

He hadn't even finished the sentence before CT-8462reached up and pressed the button.

The chute deployed, and CT-7567 felt as if his arms and legs were in a tug-of-war with the rest of his body. He held onto 8462 with every ounce of strength he had remaining. And then the violent, chaotic transition from falling to descending was over.

"Y'okay?" 7567 asked curtly.

"Yeah—yeah . . . you?"

"Yeah. But we—we gotta get on the ground . . . we're still coming down too fast . . . it's going to be a hard landing. I—I can't let go of you. Can you reach the control lines? We've—we've got less than 20 seconds before we hit—you've got to slow us down," 7567 panted.

CT-8462 adjusted his HUD to a 180-degree view and reached up behind him for the control lines. He was able to get hold of them, but the angle was awkward. He pulled down on the toggles, slowing their descent.

"Pull down more! We'll break our legs at this speed! Or—or aim for—can you get us to that heath?"

CT-8462 let up on the right toggle, and the chute swung left. They were headed for the heath, but they were still descending at a rate that would put them on the ground short of it. He pulled down on both sides again, his arms straining and reaching muscle failure; but he would not let up.

They slowed down once again and braced for impact. They came down at the edge of the heath, kicking up a spray of sand and thistle-like brush, tumbling—still intertwined—twenty yards across the heath, until the parachute caught up in the foliage, and they came to a stop.

CT-7567 lay on his side, his arms still wrapped around his squadmate. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"I think so . . . "

Almost reflexively, 7567 tightened his embrace and felt a tremor go through him as relief flooded his body. "I'm so sorry."

CT-8462 sounded perplexed. "Sorry? You saved my life."

"I also almost cost you your life," 7567 replied. "I was the one who checked your packing."

"So did the riggers, and no one caught it," 8462 pointed out. "It must have pulled lose during the jump. You couldn't have known. It was a freak thing."

CT-7567 still did not let go. He seemed to need to reassure himself that 8462 was alright, that they were both alright.

Seconds later, they could hear voices drawing near.

A small crowd of medics and other emergency personnel materialized around them.

"Can you hear me?"

It was CT-8462 who answered. "Yes, we're both alright – just . . . wiped out."

CT-7567 felt gentle hands on his arms. "You can let go, lieutenant. He's alright. You're both safely down. You can let go."

CT-7567 relaxed his grip. "From now on . . . you should have . . . you should have rocketeers on the ground to deal with situations like this," he opined. As they removed his helmet, they were surprised to see a faint smile on his lips. "Or find a way to wear jetpacks and parachutes at the same time."


	59. Chapter 58

_**Dear Reader, First, thank you to my reviewers of the last couple chapters: Ms CT-782, the Suffering Soldier, the Unnamed Guest, OakytheOaktree and Sued13. I do appreciate very much knowing that folks are reading and enjoying the story! I wanted to address a couple questions from those reviewers very quickly! The question about the use of parachutes versus jetpacks. I like to keep parachutes on the table as a way of getting into a location fully undetected. Remember, in the second chapter, that's how Rex and Co. get on the ground on Pylotta - parachuting. That's why I wanted to give it special mention as part of ARC training. Plus, the love of my life was an avid jumper. Then, the question of CT-7567 and the parachute mishap in the last chapter will be answered in this chapter! ;-) I appreciate folks being interested enough to ask questions and speculate! In fact, a lot of speculation is spot on! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 58 ARCs and Cadets

" _Nothing would be done at all if one waited until one could do it so well that no one could find fault with it."_

John Cardinal Newman

* * *

"I heard you had some excitement today," Cody stated as he joined his room-mate in the mess-hall for dinner.

"You could say that," CT-7567 answered. "Not the kind of excitement I'd care to repeat."

"I also heard that you saved a man's life," the commander went on.

CT-7567 seemed perhaps the smallest bit uncomfortable. "Barely."

"Barely was good enough." This came from CT-8462 as he sat down next to his squad-mate. "If you hadn't been there, I'd be nothing but a splatter on the ground."

"It was you?" Cody inquired.

"Yep," 8462 replied. "The arming device pulled loose between my container and my wrist control. Neither my main chute nor my reserve would deploy."

"Now, that's what I call really bad luck," Cody said with contrived lightness, wanting to be sure that the topic did not devolve into morbid _what ifs_.

"Yes, but the lieutenant here caught me," 8462 said with Shinie awe.

CT-7567 frowned. "Don't forget the other side of the story, that I'm the one who screwed up your arming device."

"I don't think that's true, Sir," 8462 disagreed. "I saw the riggers after we got back to the tarmac, and they took a look at the arming pin where it connected to the fasteners. They thought it was likely that the fastener had been bent on the previous landing and that's why it didn't close properly, that it wasn't the slider at all. The stress of that last jump separated the pin from the fastener, which was already over-extended."

This explanation still did not seem to appease 7567. "I should have caught that. I probably have more experience jumping than anyone but the instructors. I should have caught that."

"Even the riggers and the jumpmaster missed it," 8462 pointed out.

"Yeah, because I forced the two pieces together. If they'd seen how difficult it was, they'd have known something was wrong," 7567 said. "I blew it; let me feel my failure for a little bit. It won't overpower me."

From the other end of the table, CT-5052 spoke up as the same time as getting to his feet. "It should. A mistake like that? It should keep you awake at night." He began walking away to bus his tray.

"He saved my life," 8462 said pointedly. "No one else could have done what he did."

"He also put your life in danger. That was due to his negligence," 5052 rejoined. "The fact that he was able to save you . . . that's luck."

"5052, that's enough," Cody interjected. "Let's all just be glad that what could have been a tragedy was averted."

CT-5052 said nothing in reply, but his expression spoke volumes. He continued on his way.

CT-2025, 5052's roommate, drew in a long, deep breath. "Let me go talk to him."

Commander Cody spoke evenly. "He needs to check his attitude. He's been critical of everything from the start, but his negative demeanor is starting to wear thin."

"He's not a bad guy, not when it's just the two of us," 2025 explained. "He's got . . . I can tell something's bothering him, but I don't think he wants me to ask about it."

Cody nodded. He would not pursue the matter any further in front of the others. Some things were better handled in private, without a curious audience. "See what you can do," he said. He looked across the table at CT-7567, who appeared only slightly perturbed and who, in the next second, changed the subject completely.

"What did your squad having going today?"

"Overground march," Cody replied, then he added almost wistfully, "It was very . . . great."

"Great? A road-march is great?"

"It wasn't a straight road-march," Cody deferred. "We went into the mountains. It was more like a hike."

"What was the point of the exercise?" 7567 asked.

"I think it was to emphasize teamwork. We had no equipment with us, and there were times we had to scale some pretty steep terrain. We had to work together. It was a good experience," Cody explained.

"Do you ever have a bad experience?" 7567 asked with a chirp.

"Not if I can help it," Cody winked. "But it takes work."

"I'll bet."

The rest of the meal passed in meaningless banter, but Cody noticed that CT-7567 was a bit more reserved than usual. On their way towards yet another evening instruction on unaided navigation, the commander decided that, as the senior officer and the roommate, he would follow in the vein of CT-2025 and see what help he could offer.

"You were pretty quiet during dinner," he began. "That was a first."

"Enh, I didn't have much to say," came the disinterested response.

After a brief hesitation, Cody posed, "You're not bothered by what 5052 said, are you?"

"No," 7567 replied. "He hasn't had many nice things to say about me since day one." A pause. "But I am disgusted with myself for missing the problem with the fastener." He stopped and turned to face the commander squarely. "I knew, Cody. I knew that it wasn't normal for it to be so hard to close the damned thing. I knew that!"

Cody regarded him with equanimity. "Then why did you decide to overlook it?"

"Because I didn't think it would cause a problem!"

Cody was surprised by the anguish in the reply.

"I didn't think—I didn't think it would stop his parachute from opening."

They both stood quietly, waiting for several other trainees to overtake them.

Once the others were past, Cody shunted his roommate into a side passageway, and speaking in a low voice, said, "You can't foresee every possibility. You didn't know there was going to be trouble; but once it happened, you took action. There's no sense in dwelling on it."

"But I should have brought it to the rigger's attention—"

"It's called _making a mistake_. You made an error in judgment. It happens to everyone," Cody persisted. "And now, it's one mistake you're a lot less likely to make in the future."

"Yeah, but you saw CT-8462 . . . he thinks I'm a hero. And I'm the one who messed it up."

"You're also the one who made good on your mistake," Cody reminded him. "8462 is a Shinie. He's looking at us experienced guys to show him how to act – when things are going good and when they're not going so good." He considered before speaking his next words; after all, CT-7567 was still something of a hotshot wildcard. "You've shown him an example; and it was clear, back there, that he thinks the universe of you." A pause. "And we both know how important it is that our men trust and respect us. You and I have plenty of experience leading men in front-line units. Now, I may not understand your leadership style, but I can't argue against its effectiveness. One mistake is hardly a reason to start questioning yourself."

"I'm not questioning myself," 7567 pointed out. "I already know all the how's and why's of what happened." He grimaced, as if the whole subject were causing him pain. "I'm angry. Angry that I let it happen. Angry that I'm afraid . . . I'm afraid it _will_ keep me up at night."

Cody squinted at him curiously. "So, what you said in the dining hall, that bit about not being overwhelmed by guilt . . . that wasn't true?"

CT-7567 was silent for a few seconds before answering. "In war, things move so fast that there's no time to feel guilty. We go from one battle to the next and barely—we don't even have time to mourn the men we lost in the last battle. But . . . "

Cody could not explain it, but he felt that he was getting very close to something – something that might go a long way to explaining the inner workings of his roommate's mercurial mind.

"But . . . what?"

And for a moment, he thought he might actually get an answer. But then, CT-7567 shook his head in a definitive manner. "Nothing. I'm just rambling. Come on, we're going to be late for the lab, and I don't need any more gigs."

Cody sighed and thought to himself, _"How can a man who appears so open have so many walls around him?"_

* * *

Two days later.

"One of the ARC trooper's greatest strengths is his ability to lead. While it's true that most of you will be going back to line units on permanent assignment, there's a chance that some of you might find your way into the AG." Major Tides was referring to the very small, elite group of ARC troopers who were divvyed out as needed to augment other units on special missions. "Why, some of you might even be good enough to get picked for the cadre. In any event, you will need to be able to win over the trust and loyalty of your men from the get-go."

He paced slowly in front of the assembled trainees.

"You've spent your lives thus far with your batchers. You grew up together. You trained together. And now you've gone to war together. But as ARC troopers, a lot of you will not be going back to your batchers. You'll be going wherever the war effort most needs you. If you're in the AG, you may end up in a new unit with a new group soldiers every other week. The speed with which you establish trust and develop solid leadership will be crucial."

He stopped pacing and faced the neat and orderly ranks.

"With that in mind, with this class we've decided to implement a new program," Tides went on. "You will be paired up with a fellow trainee and then put in charge of a batch of cadets. You will be given a land navigation assignment with minimal equipment, minimal rations, and a certain amount of time to get to the endpoint." A rather sneaky grin played across his face. "The goal is to see how well you can lead a group of men under the most austere circumstances. You will recall from your own training days, that most exercises included the use of computers and other advanced equipment. That's what these cadets are used to, as well. All of that will be taken away for this exercise."

He pulled up large 2-d projection map of the planet's surface. "No group will be within a hundred miles of each other. We have more than enough training areas all over the planet to be able to keep any two teams from running into each other. To be sure, gentlemen, this is not a race. Let me repeat that: this is not a race. It's meant to test your leadership and your ability to work without the . . . convenience of current technology. The exercise is meant to last four days, and it will be remotely monitored via satellite and drone. None of the cadre will be with you, but we'll be able to respond to any emergency situation that might arise." A pause. "On the wall are numbers one through forty. These are the team numbers. When I call your number, go stand by your team number. Team number one: CT-1080-1 and CT-9292. Team number two . . . "

CT-7567 turned to CT-2025 and said under his breath, "Kripes, they're going to pair me up with CT-5052. Just watch."

But when CT-5052's number was called, he was paired with CT-2541, a trainee in Gandar Squad with whom CT-7567 was not familiar.

" _Dodged a blaster bolt there,"_ 7567 thought something whimsically. _"Okay, I can handle anyone else—"_

"Team Number fourteen: CT-3636 and CT-7567."

For a moment, CT-7567 was still.

In fact, neither man moved.

While there might not be quite the degree of apparent antipathy from 3636 as there was from 5052, it was not lost on anyone present that the cadre had just put together two extremely dominant personalities.

"Are you two darlings waiting for an engraved invitation? Go to your number," Tides ordered, making sure to put just the right amount of snark in his voice.

CT-7567 and CT-3636 both rallied what was left of their military bearing and strode to the number fourteen placard on the wall.

Neither spoke.

The rest of the team pairings were announced.

CT-7567 made a special point of noting who Commander Cody was paired with. CT-1944, the staff sergeant from the 3d Infantry Regiment – as agreeable and enthusiastic as a man could be. It hardly seemed fair.

"Tonight at 2000 hours, you will return here and break into your pairs. A member of the cadre will be assigned to each team to give them a briefing on their exercise and instructions for reporting tomorrow morning. You will meet your cadet platoons tomorrow just prior to the start of the exercise. Your cadre advisor will tell you what you can and can't bring and what the uniform will be. You won't all have the same type of terrain. Dismissed!"

CT-7567 turned to his partner. "See you at 2000 hours."

CT-3636 sneered. He wasn't going to hide his distaste with the situation. "You'd think they put us together on purpose just to get on my nerves."

"Hm. I was thinking the same thing."

* * *

"Tinderhout."

"Tinderhout?"

"The region here inside the green line. It's called Tinderhout." The cadre advisor's name was Clicks, Sergeant Major Clicks; and he was certainly not a man to be taken lightly. He presented as a master mountaineer, an expert in the area of land navigation and high country crossing. But Tinderhout, he informed them gravely, was not "high ground." Not part of Tinderhout reached over 700 meters. Still, _"it's not the height that makes the challenge; it's the terrain and its weather."_

"Your starting point is going to be here at L'Edale. Your ending point here at Bledloe. In between's a lot of steep climbs and rocky passages. Dozens of mountain streams, a few cascades. You've got to beware of the weather up there, boys. Comes up fast. If it comes from the south or the east, you'll probably have fair warning. From the north and west . . . that's when it's dangerous. This planet has high strata atmospheric winds that can cause all kinds of trouble at all elevations, so don't take unnecessary risks if you see something coming at you." He ran his hand over the hard-copy map laid out in front of them. "This is all you're going to have as a guide. This, a compass, and a Mylar protractor. Time to see if you remember your old-school training."

"I'll be fine with old school," CT-3636 stated. "But these cadets . . . the way they train them now, they don't learn how to do anything unless it involves a computer. How are they going to handle being without their gadgets?"

"I guess that'll depend on you, Commander," the sergeant major replied, and his voice contained a slight undertone of challenge. "A good ARC trooper will make them forget their _gadgets_ ever existed."

CT-7567 smiled to himself but remained silent.

"So, what else are we allowed to bring with us?" CT-3636 asked.

"For starters, you won't be wearing your armor. Class IV fatigues with packs. As the two men in charge, you'll both have a few more supplies than your cadets. I'll provide you the list when we're done with the briefing. You will have your weapons. Some of your cadets will have specialty items. It will be up to the two of you to ascertain the status and equipage of your platoon once you meet them tomorrow."

"Will we meet up with them here or at the starting point?"

"Here." The sergeant major looked at CT-7567. "Lieutenant, do you have any questions?"

"No," came the reply. "Just anxious to get started."

The sergeant major nodded. "Then I'll leave you to it. Report to hangar C-7 tomorrow morning at 0400 sharp, and be ready to go."

"Yes, sergeant major."

Now alone in the room together, CT-7567 deferred to the commander, who was looking over the list of acceptable items. "What do you think?"

CT-3636 didn't raise an eye. "About what?"

"About the mission. I think we should take some time tonight to plan a route, maybe see if we can get some weather forecasts—"

"You handle the forecasts. I'll handle the route."

"It would be a good idea if we looked at the route together," 7567 stated, not in the least intimidated by the commander's dismissive manner.

CT-3636 looked up slowly. "We don't have much time to prepare. It's better for us to split the duties. You handle the forecasts. I'll handle the route." He was about to return to the list, but another thought came to him. "And it will look bad if we disagree or argue with each other in front of the cadets. Let's make sure we keep it between us."

"Agreed," 7567 said with a single nod. He could have kept silent at that point, but he had something he wanted to say, and he figured now was as good a time as any. "We should also remember, Commander, that for the purposes of ARC training, we're equals. We should try to work things out as a leadership team."

CT-3636 gave a one-sided and fairly insincere grin. "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

Hangar C-7.

Zero-four-hundred sharp.

CT-7567 was there. CT-3636 was there.

The cadet platoon was there. Thirty-men strong, standing at parade rest in perfect formation, wearing their Class IV fatigues, their 60-pound packs sitting neatly at their feet.

In those days, very few cadets had the audacity to alter their appearance. It went against regulations, good order and discipline; and the idea of uniqueness played no important role in the development of a fighting force.

The same held true for these cadets. One or two might have a somewhat altered haircut, but there was no color but brown; no tattoes, no shaved heads. They were, from all appearances, fine replicas of their template and mostly indistinguishable one from the other.

As CT-7567 and 3636 approached, one of the cadets snapped to attention. "Platoon, atten-CHUN!"

The platoon came to attention. The cadet stepped forward. He was one of the few with a different haircut from the others – a high and tight with a sort of flat-top that launched slightly over his forehead. And there was a gleam in his eyes that reflected an eagerness that CT-7567 immediately found appealing.

"Platoon 28646-11B reporting!" the cadet barked out.

"Very good," 7567 replied. "I'm CT-7567. This is CT-3636. We're going to be your platoon leaders for this exercise."

"Yes, Sir!"

"And you are?" 7567 asked.

"CT-4441," came the crisp reply. "My batchers chose me to represent them to you." He seemed to be enjoying his moment. "First Squad!" The first column took one step forward. "This is Orange Squad. Second Squad!" The second column followed suit, and in turn CT-4441 introduced Predator Squad, Quest Squad, and Raptor Squad. When he called the final column forward, he seemed to take a notch up in pride. "And last, but always first, my squad – Saber Squad."

 _ ***A few notes. For those of you who might have raised an eye at Tinderhout and L'Edale . . . yes, yes, I ripped them off from one of my favorite hiking areas in the world - Kinder Scout in the Peaks District of England! In fact, Tinderhout will bear a striking resemblance to that whole area!**_

 _ **Gadgets . . . does it sound like I'm talking about today's kids and their fascination with their gadgets? I am!**_

 _ **CT-7567 and CT-3636 together . . . this was not the pairing in my original draft of this story, but I changed it so we can have some contention ;-)**_

 _ **Lastly . . . I hope you all recall Saber Squad from earlier in the story (this is Jesse, Hardcase, Kix, Top, and Pitch).**_


	60. Chapter 59

_**Dear Reader, Thank you to my reviewers, Ms CT-762, Freedom Phantom and the Unnamed Guest. Much appreciated. To answer a question asked about the last chapter. Originally, I had Rex paired with Cody, but because they have a lot of big joint adventures coming up (including at ARC training), I decided to mix things up a bit!**_

 _ **A couple notes:**_

 **CT- _8333-11 Double-Ones (Nocturne Squad - language specialty)  
CT-85-8585 (Predator Squad)_**

 ** _CT-5597 Jesse (Saber Squad)  
CT-4441 Top (Saber Squad)  
CT-2080 Hardcase (Saber Squad) - if he has a real number, someone let me know! I couldn't find it!  
CT-2085-4 Pitch (Saber Squad)  
CT-6116 Kix (Saber Squad)_**

 ** _Cadet Chips (Orange Squad)  
_** ** _Cadet Bead (Raptor Squad)  
_**

Chapter 59 Tinderhout

" _Such inhospitable land! Yet wild beauty resides."_

 _Many Crossing_  
Herbert Dfurning

* * *

CT-7567 shielded his eyes with his hand and scanned the rocky, uneven terrain stretching away before him.

Next to him, CT-3636 nodded appreciatively at the difficult expanse. "If this ordinance map is accurate, the easy part is behind us."

CT-7567 gave a wry smile. "And we're only four hours into this."

They had started out from L'Edale, a small village in the foothills below Tinderhout, just as the sun was casting the sky into grey above the jagged peaks. They'd formed up their cadets into two columns of fifteen and set off on the steep uphill march.

The weather was cool but not cold; and as the mist that hovered over the lower altitudes gave way to the clearer air of the mid-levels, the sun warmed up the rocks around them, raising the temperature and lowering the humidity.

"The men seem to be holding up well," CT-7567 noted.

"And well they should," 3636 stated. "They get enough conditioning in Basic that this shouldn't even be a challenge."

"They seem like a good group," 7567 opined.

"Yes, they do," 3636 agreed, and he meant it.

After arriving at L'Edale but before setting out, he and 7567 had taken thirty minutes to go over the exercise with their platoon. And in those thirty minutes, both ARC trainees had been impressed with the professional comportment of their charges, not to mention the clear enthusiasm and readiness the cadets displayed.

The six squads comprised a batch, and it was clear right away that these batchers were exceptional in many ways, not the least of which was the sense of unity they shared.

Of course, both CT-3636 and CT-7567 knew that, as squads, they were highly competitive with each other. It had been that way when the two of them had been in Basic. It was certainly that way now. Squads competed. That's the way it was. That was how they pushed themselves to ever greater levels of excellence.

They might be operating as a team now – the circumstances demanded it – but both 3636 and 7567 imagined that the pecking order of squads would reveal itself over the next four days.

CT-3636 had entrusted the ordinance maps to a responsible clone from Nocturne Squad, CT-8333-11. He was yet another clone being groomed for specialty operations. His area of expertise was languages. He stood slightly behind the two ARC officers now as they surveyed the way ahead.

"So, we have a choice," CT-3636 said, laying out the map on top of a relatively flat boulder. "Another two hundred yards and we have this split. We can go down along this streambed or we can go over the high ground."

CT-7567 turned and called out to the men lounging among the rocks behind them. "CT-5597!"

One of the cadets sprang to his feet and joined them. He had an eager manner, but his expression was serious, almost grave. He was a member of Saber Squad and had already distinguished himself back at L'Edale for having studied the data on the location to saturation. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to recall minutiae and seemingly insignificant details.

"Yes, Lieutenant!" he said, reporting and standing to.

"At ease," 7567 said. "What can you tell us about the risks of the lower route versus the risks of the upper route?"

CT-5597 looked at the map. "There are multiple routes over both the lower and the upper altitudes, Sir. Depending on which route we take, the risks are different. This route here would take us through this gorge, and if it rains – and it looks like it might – this gorge could turn into a flume. We could end up in serious trouble. If we get hit by a flash-flood, those walls will be hard to scale. On the other hand, any route over the high ground exposes us to the potential for violent weather and . . . these highland streams can also turn into raging rivers." He looked up from the map. "The biggest variable is the weather. It can be raining in the peaks and perfectly dry down here. We won't know what's going on until it hits us."

CT-7567 nodded. "The sergeant major said pretty much the same thing, that the weather is unpredictable and comes up fast."

"There are caves here and here," CT-3636 pointed out where he marked them on the map the night before. "We can take refuge if the weather turns bad."

"There were also caves along here. And . . . up here, they're not caves but the ruins of ancient dwellings," CT-5597 added. "They might suffice in a pinch."

"What's your opinion on the best route?" CT-7567 asked.

CT-5597 considered. He turned and regarded the sky to the east where dark clouds were just barely starting to show over the tops of the peaks. "Those look like storm clouds to me, but it's hard to tell how far off they are and how much rain they're bringing. We'd have to wait for them to move over the hills. My recommendation would be to stay on the high ground until we see what's coming up behind us. There are several other places we can move down into the valleys if we want to."

"The terrain up here is very rocky," CT-3636 pointed out. "Look at that up ahead. That's going to be treacherous. If we're going to try and go over that, it's going to be slow. And everyone needs to be careful – one wrong step and you could end up with a broken ankle."

CT-7567 was cheeky. "Sure wish we had jetpacks."

CT-3636 smiled, despite himself. It was a funny statement. "Look, it's bad enough that we have to wear this Class IV crap . . . I'd rather have armor. Don't remind me how much easier this would be if we could just soar across it all."

"Well, at least this uniform weighs a lot less, even if doesn't offer the same protection," CT-7567 replied. He put his hand up to the bill of his cap and tipped it in a quirky manner. "We're not going to win any fashion contests."

"You're right about that. Okay, I think we've been here long enough. Let's stick with the high ground at least until the next juncture. We'll keep an eye on the weather," 3636 said, then quickly added, "Are we agreed?"

"Agreed."

"CT-5579, get the men ready to go."

CT-5579 assembled the platoon. There were no groans, no sounds of disgruntlement – only the sounds of young men getting to their feet and regaining their packs.

The two ARC trainees set out at the front of their platoon, heading towards a fixed point on the horizon, a beak-shaped mountain peak. It looked to be a rough ten or eleven kilometers from where they stood now; but given the terrain before them, they had both concluded it would take at least eight hours to reach the point.

As they proceeded further, the ground between the rocky spikes turned into mud – slippery and, as CT-3636 had warned, treacherous. CT-7567 heard CT-4441 behind him, urging caution to his batchers, and he smiled at the cadet's boisterous and aggressive manner.

"If you break something, I'm sure as hell not going to carry you! Kripes, man, lift your feet or you're going to trip over them! Look at Quest Squad, tiptoeing like a bunch of dainties! Don't get your pantaloons dirty, girls!"

And the incredible thing was . . . no one seemed to mind.

After nearly two hours, CT-5579 spoke up. "Commander? Lieutenant?"

Without stopping, the two officers acknowledged him. "What is it, Cadet?"

"You might want to take a look at the clouds again," he suggested. "They're gaining on us."

The two turned and regarded the sky. "Damn, it didn't take long for them to catch up," CT-3636 grumbled.

"They look pretty threatening. You can see the rain coming down," CT-7567 observed, then to CT-5579, "How long do you think it will take for them to be overhead?"

"Another hour, maybe a little less," 5579 replied.

"And we're stuck up here," 3636 frowned. "There's no place to take cover."

"About one more mile and there should be a gradual downslope that could get us into one of the valleys," 5579 said. "But if we go down, it will add a lot of time to the trip unless we come back up after the storm passes. If we follow the valley, there are a lot of turns. And we could get caught in a flash flood."

"Where are the nearest highland caves?" CT-7567 asked.

"Beyond that point we're headed for. If we head down, there are caves on the other side of the valley. We might be able to get to them before the storm hits, but it's unlikely," 5579 stated.

From back among the cadets, a raised voice suggested, "Why don't we just push through the storm? It's just some wind and rain. We're not going to melt."

CT-7567 and 3636 looked back to see one of the cadets standing with his arms out, one booted foot planted firmly upon a pile of stone, looking like a conquering explorer.

CT-7567 took a few steps towards him, a smile forming on his lips. "CT-2080, isn't it?"

"Sir, yes, Sir."

"You're anxious to get wet?"

"I'm anxious to forge ahead, Sir. A little rain never hurt anyone."

"I like your attitude," 7567 nodded. "But I think this might be more than _a little rain_."

"Then it will be a challenge, nothing we can't handle."

"Pay no attention to him, Sir," CT-5579 said with a grin. "He thinks he can take on the whole Separatist army singlehandedly."

"And why not? They're just a bunch of machines," CT-2080 asserted.

Right away, CT-7567 felt a certain affinity for the brash cadet who appeared so fearless. "They may be machines, but wait until you have to fight against them. Besides, the Separatists have a lot of fighters who aren't machines, and they're pretty formidable."

"Again, nothing we can't handle, Sir," 2080 replied confidently.

CT-7567 liked his answer.

CT-3636 spoke up. "We don't have time for this right now. We need to make a decision which route to take before that storm bears down. CT-7567?"

CT-7567 returned to stand with CT-3636 and CT-5579, and they looked over the map once more.

"I think we should stick to the high ground," 7567 opined. "It looks like there are only three streams between us and the first point. We should be able to cross the before the storm catches us, while they're still small enough to make it without trouble. And 2080 is right, the rain isn't going to kill us. It's just going to make us wet."

"Yeah, but you're forgetting, we're not in armor. These Class IVs will stay water-proof, but only until they brush up against something and break the seal," 3636 pointed out. "We don't have extra uniforms. Once these are soaked, they're all we've got."

It was a valid point. The Class IV uniform, a drab grey, was not a combat uniform in any sense. Durable fabric pants and top with an over-top belt at the waist and light-weight knee-high boots, the uniforms were common use for non-combat missions, a sort of utility uniform. A round, five-point, duck-billed cap and goggles completed the ensemble. The uniforms were made with waterproof fibers and treated with a water-proof polymer, but like most flexible fibers, the water-proof seal was broken once the wet material was touched or rubbed.

And while they were constructed to dry out quickly, they needed dry weather to do so. There was no predicting how long the rain would last, how the next four days would pan out weather-wise.

"So, we'll be uncomfortable for four days—" CT-7567 began, but 3636 cut him off.

"I expect something like that from CT-2080. He's a cadet; he doesn't know better. But _we_ do. I'm not into taking unnecessary chances."

"Going to the lower levels isn't without risk, either," 7567 pointed out.

CT-3636's tone was derisive. "Then why don't you take three squads over the high ground, and I'll take three squads low, and we'll see how things turn out?"

"Because we're supposed to work together," CT-7567 replied flatly.

"The sergeant major didn't say anything about having to keep the platoon together at all times," 3636 pointed out. "We can split up here and plan to meet at the first point by dawn tomorrow."

CT-7567 considered for the briefest of moments. He had decided early on that CT-3636 was a clone who was always complaining, always criticizing his fellow trainees, the cadre, and . . . well, just about everything. He would like nothing more than to get away from him for a few hours . . .

"No. We're supposed to do this together," he concluded. "There's strength in numbers, and we might need that strength in the coming days. If you want to go own into the valleys, we'll go down into the valleys."

CT-3636 nodded curtly. "Good. Now you're thinking like an ARC trooper instead of some fool cadet." He turned and climbed on top of a large boulder to get a look at the way ahead.

CT-7567 turned to CT-5579. "Let the men know we're heading off the high ground." As he spoke, he caught sight of CT-2080 standing with his other squad mates, looking none too happy. " _They probably heard everything 3636 said, and they think he considers them fools."_ A sigh. _"Yeah, this is some good start we're off to."_

* * *

"It must be raining hard upstream." This observation came from one of Orange Squad's cadets, a buoyant fellow who had been given a name by his squad mates. He went by "Chips", short for "Chipper", which was how his squad mates viewed him. He was upbeat, always cheerful, and well-liked by his batchers. "This creek is definitely outside its boundaries."

"Yeah," CT-4441 agreed. "If we're going to cross, we need to do it soon, before it gets too wide and too fast."

"We're not even at the bottom yet," another clone said in a low voice. He was another member of Saber Squad, CT-2085-4; and he was an odd combination of gravity and whimsy. He had one great love—other than his squad mates—and that was explosives. In fact, his specialty path back on Kamino was demolitions. "If there's a river at the bottom of this valley, and we're supposed to get on the other side to get to the caves, we may have a big task ahead of us."

Ahead of them, CT-7567 listened to them without their knowledge. They were showing themselves to be no less than he would have expected from his brethren: clever, observant, and determined. He turned towards them, walking backwards as he spoke. "What did the map show, Double-Ones?" Double-Ones was the name he had created for CT-8333-11. "Is there a river at the bottom of this?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," Double-Ones replied. "I couldn't tell from the map how wide it was, but with all the feeder streams we've seen, I would imagine it's pretty big."

"Well, we've got to cross it, so we will," CT-7567 said. "One way or another." Then to CT-3636, "We'd better quicken the pace. If it _is_ raining up above us, the river down below may be swollen and growing wider every minute. This stream here is already wide enough . . . how do you plan to cross?"

"Do we need to cross?" CT-3636 asked. "The path we're on looks like it runs parallel to the line of the valley, and it descends more gradually. We don't have to cross this stream unless we want to head straight down."

"Either way, we'll have a river to cross at the bottom. I think it's best to try and get to it as soon as possible before it has a chance to get too wide," CT-7567 stated.

At that moment, a thin rain began to fall.

"I agree," 3636 said, looking skyward. "But I'd rather cross one big river than cross a bunch of streams first and then still have to cross _one big river_."

"Point taken," 7567 conceded.

"We're going to get wet either way, but we have less chance of getting soaked the longer we avoid wading into any streams," 3636 pointed out.

7567 tilted his head. "You're speaking under the assumption that we'd be going _into_ the water."

"Of course," 3636 replied. "There aren't any jetpacks here, Rocketeer."

CT-7567 smiled. "I rather like that name. I hope it sticks. But I wasn't referring to jetpacks this time. We have our weapons; we have cables. We can cross without ever touching the water."

CT-3636 was momentarily speechless. In truth, he was embarrassed for not having thought of the idea himself. "That's if we can find the right sort of place to use them," he said, not wanting to immediately acknowledge the validity of the idea. "We'll see what the situation looks like when we reach the valley floor."

For CT-7567, this grudging acceptance of his suggestion was good enough. He'd not expected anything more from his platoon co-leader.

"Right, so let's get a move on."

For the next hour, they continued their downward trek along the narrow path above the valley floor. The rain continued to fall, oscillating in intensity.

CT-7567 had to wonder, at this point, what the purpose was in finding cover? Unless it was to dry out their uniforms and warm up a bit—for the air had grown cold with the rain—it would be shelter taken too late. What protection from the rain did they need now when they were dripping wet?

" _The cadets are probably thinking the same thing,"_ he groused inwardly. _"Kripes, they're probably wondering how the two of us ever got into ARC training if the best we could come up with was a hair-brained idea like this."_

And then something happened that not only changed his mind, but it chastened him for having such a low opinion of the men he and CT-3636 were leading, thinking that they must be silently griping in the same manner as he was.

A voice broke out into song. Loud, clear and strong, rising above the sound of the rain and the wind.

CT-7567 smiled with recognition. It was a tune they had sung even in his days as a cadet, a sort of pro-Republic cadence call that placed a great deal of emphasis on the beauty and, er, _abilities_ of the women of the Republic. It had been one of the boons of an all-male environment that such wonderful expositions on the finer attributes of the gentler sex could be undertaken without fear of offending any tender sensibilities. Why, even Jedi General Shaak-Ti, in charge of the clone training program and a stunningly beautiful Tagrutan female, could find no fault – though she did consider it very interesting and just a little peculiar that men who had seen very few women during their time on Kamino—certainly very few human women—whose access even to images of women was restricted, and whose first ten years of life had been geared solely towards combat and kept clear of any feminine influence . . . how did these men, under these circumstances, develop such healthy libidos and appreciation for the female form? Clearly, that part of Jango Fett had survived the cloning matrix and been passed along, only to be met with discipline and more than a degree of frustration, certainly; for the rules were clear: Clones were made for fighting, not procreating.

Which, as it turned out, made for some great cadence calls.

The rest of the men joined in. CT-7567 joined in.

CT-3636 did not.

But if 7567 were any judge, his companion's reticence was not due to an ill mood. No, 3636 seemed to be very focused and perhaps even a bit worried.

CT-7567 could guess why.

The path they were on was certainly descending but at a very shallow grade. It was taking them a long time to get to the bottom, and they had not avoided the rain at all. The decision to go low had resulted in a colossal waste of time.

CT-7567 almost felt sorry for him, imagining how he must be wilting under the weight of humiliation; and so he decided to offer some support, show how magnanimous he could be. He could find a hundred ways to say, "I told you so" without ever having to actually say the words.

"Maybe, if we're lucky, the rain will stop before we reach the bottom, and we can head back up," he offered. "The slope has been so gradual, I think the men are still pretty energetic."

But CT-3636's response was clear indication that his concentration and silence had nothing to do with humility, shame, or even doubt in his decision.

"Do you hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what?"

"It's hard to tell with all that caterwauling going on back there, but there's been a low rumble for the past twenty minutes or so. I can even feel it in the ground as we walk," 3636 explained.

"I don't hear anything other than the men . . . and some thunder," CT-7567 replied. "Maybe it's the thunder you're hearing."

"No, I thought of that," CT-3636 disagreed. "Thunder would come and go. This is almost continuous. I don't like it. Bring the platoon to a halt and tell the men to be quiet. I have a bad feeling about this."

CT-7567 was not much convinced that 3636's bad feelings were any reason for concern, but he did as asked. He turned to the platoon and called a halt.

"Everyone, be perfectly silent for a bit!" he ordered.

They obeyed him.

That was when they all heard it.

And felt it.

There _was_ a low rumbling noise, sometimes louder, sometimes softer, but ever present. When it grew louder, the ground reverberated to a greater degree; when it grew softer, there was less reverberation.

"What the hell is making that sound? Where is it coming from?" CT-3636 asked.

Clones were conditioned from the earlier moments of their emergence from their growth tubes to perceive the world around them not just through the common and standard use of their senses, but through the development of much lesser functions of those same senses. One of those functions was using their hearing and even feeling sound vibrations in the way many lesser animals did. As such, by the time they left Kamino as troopers, they were adept at triangulating the location from which sounds emanated without any outside aid. They did not necessarily need to see where a blaster bolt came from, as long as they heard the shot as it was made.

"It sounds like a . . . like a massive engine," CT-7567 said. "Like a star destroyer firing on all thrusters." A pause. "I can't tell where it's coming from. In this valley, the sounds just bounce off the walls, back and forth." He raised his voice. "Squad leaders! Front and center!"

It took some careful maneuvering for the six squad leaders to approach the front, for the path the platoon was on had grown narrow at the point where they were now stopped. To their right, the valley wall rose in a nearly vertical face of rock. To their left, it fell away, not quite as steeply, but enough so that anyone going over the edge would not find a stop until they reached the bottom. Up ahead, the path had no appearance of widening any time soon.

"Do you all hear that sound?" CT-7567 asked.

A chorus of affirmative replies came back.

"Thoughts on what it might be?"

The Predator Squad leader, CT-86-8585—a rather gruff, no-nonsense cadet—spoke up. "It could be the sounds of the streams or the river echoing up the valley. If they're flooded and turned into rapids, they'd make a lot of noise."

"That's true," CT-7567 acknowledged. "That would also account for the feeling that the ground is shaking."

"It could also be the weather, the thunder and the wind." This from Raptor Squad's leader, an assertive clone who had also already acquired a nickname: Bead, which—his squad mates had already explained—owed to his incredible ability to line up a shot—draw a bead—in a split-second.

CT-5579 opined thoughtfully. "At our briefing before we started out, you mentioned, Lieutenant, something about high strata atmospheric winds. Could we be hearing those winds?"

"It's possible," CT-7567 said, noting that CT-3636 was keeping very quiet about everything that was being said. "Commander? What are you thinking?"

One of CT-3636's greatest strengths was his intuition, his instincts. He had always been very in tune with his surroundings; and he'd always wanted to put that ability to use on the front lines, leading men, for he felt that was where his skills would be best utilized. Being a staff officer—even for a Jedi Master as brilliant as Plo Koon—was, in 3636's opinion, a grave misuse of his talents. If he had one hope for ARC school, it was that by graduating from it, he would be reassigned from a staff role to a combat role.

"I think we didn't spend enough time studying the weather while we still had access to a computer," came the reply, spoken with a degree of self-recrimination. "Most high strata winds are jet streams. They head in one direction at rapid speeds. We have to take them into account every time we bring a ship into a planet's atmosphere. I've encountered them hundreds, if not thousands, of times. I'm sure you have, as well, CT-7567." He paused and a perplexed expression deepened the creases in his forehead. "But we're nowhere near the strata. Even when we were up on top, we were nowhere near the altitude of strata winds. But . . . if I'm right, and—and there's something going on up there on top of the plateau, then we may need to get down to the bottom a lot faster."

"Why? What do you suspect?" CT-7567 asked.

CT-3636 did not answer right away. Instead he turned to CT-5579. "Have one of your men use his cable and climbed to the top. I want to know what he sees up there."

"Right away, Sir!" CT-5579 turned and shouted back over the increasing din. "CT-2080! I need you to fix cable, get on top and see what's going on. Once you've taken a look, get back down here immediately and report."

"You got it, Jesse."

It was a strange thing to enter his mind, but at that moment, it occurred to CT-7567 that more cadets had nicknames than ARC trainees. He would have thought that active duty was a perfect breeding ground for the creation and bestowing of names; but perhaps the rigors of war and the rate at which clones died did more to prevent familiarities than promote them.

As CT-2080 began his ascent, aided by the retraction feature on his weapon, CT-3636 explained his thinking. "Why would the sergeant major have bothered to mention the high strata winds if it wasn't something he thought we needed to know? He said they can cause trouble at the higher elevations. We have to ask ourselves, what kind of trouble?"

"Gale force winds? Hurricane force winds?" 7567 offered. "They could blow a man right off his feet, send debris flying."

"If this planet has a wide strata band, a storm could gather strength as high up as 18,000, even 20,000 meters," 3636 pointed out. "And if the lower end of the band is close to the planet's surface, it would visit that storm even at high elevations. The thing we don't know—the thing I sent him up there for—is to find out whether or not there's a heat differential in the strata winds."

Suddenly, CT-7567 understood. "You're . . . looking for rotation."

CT-3636 nodded. "And if I'm interpreting that sound correctly . . . I think we're going to _find_ rotation."

"Tornadoes," CT-5579, Jesse, stated bluntly.

"Tornadoes," 3636 confirmed.

Less than twenty seconds after reaching the top, CT-2080 was on his way back down; and there was no mistaking the urgency in his manner when he reached the level of the path.

"Fek and all—sorry, Sirs!—it's a kriffing madhouse up there! There must be ten—twelve cyclones running over the plateau! They're—they go so high up into the sky that you can't see the tops of them! They're sucking up all kinds of _osik_ and throwing it all over the place—and in between these things, the sky—the clouds—are low! I've never seen anything like it!"

"Could you tell which way it was headed?" 3636 asked.

"In all different directions! It was going everywhere—"

"Calm down, Cadet," 3636 chastised. "I need informative answers, not an old woman's squalling."

CT-2080 reined in his over-expression.

"Could you tell, in general, which way the storm was headed? Is it coming towards the valley?"

"Well, the clouds looked like they were moving in the same direction we are," 2080 replied. "The cyclones were moving in all directions. I wasn't up there long enough to notice if they're also moving in generally the same direction we are or if they're getting closer to the valley or moving away."

"Whatever direction the clouds are moving, the cyclones will be moving in that same direction," 3636 pointed out. "They might reverse direction within the cloud mass, but they'll move with the mass."

"I guess it's a good thing we did get off that plateau," CT-7567 said with an internal pang of concession. He'd been wrong; CT-3636 had been right, even if the reasoning had not involved the possibility of tornadoes.

"Yeah, and now we need to keep moving down," 3636 said. "If those things get near this valley, they'll suck us right up off this ledge."

"Then let's go," 7567 said resolutely.

They got the men moving again.

"How will we know if they're getting closer?" 7567 asked as they resumed at the head of the platoon.

"The sound will be a lot louder," CT-3636 replied. "And the rain will stop. Those cyclones suck all the rain up into them. If the rain stops and the noise gets louder, then we need to take cover."

"Do you want to continue along this path or take our chances rappelling down to the bottom?" 7567 asked.

CT-3636 shook his head. "Look at the size of these streams now. Some of them have to cut across our path up ahead, and we'll be hard-pressed enough to get over those, unless there are walkways or bridges. But all this water up here . . . means even more water down there. If we go straight down, we don't know if there's a bank or not. The thing may be a torrent, and we'll have nowhere to alight. We could end up trapped. We don't know what the other side will look like for anchoring cables. If we continue on this path, I at least like to think that it will end at a crossing, and hopefully that crossing won't be under water."

And there, in the space a few scant minutes, CT-7567's entire opinion of CT-3636 changed. Yes, he still considered him to be rude, hyper-critical, and prone to complaining; but he now saw in him a clever, calculating mind that could look at the circumstances, figure out the right questions before running after answers that had no significance, and make sound decisions based on the facts. And whether 7567 wanted to admit it or not, the truth was that if he'd been the one to decide their course, they'd have been up on the plateau when the storm and its funnels had hit.

"Okay, brothers! Let's get moving! We've got to double our speed!" CT-7567 ordered.

The downward trek continued on.

From above them, the rain was now running down the valley wall in cascades; there were narrow fissures that centuries of falling water had carved into the rock, and at these junctures, the path crossed on stone or wooden bridges.

"We're going to get swept right off the path!" CT-2080 shouted to his squad mate, CT-2085-4.

"You could body surf all the way to the bottom!" replied CT-2085-4, making light of a situation that was growing more aggravating by the moment.

At the head of the columns, CT-3636 was grim. He could see another waterfall gushing down the side of the gorge ahead of them. _"I'll bet a couple hours ago, this was barely a trickle. It's coming down in sheets over that bridge."_ He grit his teeth as he drew closer and got a better look at wooden bridge. It was not long, maybe ten yards, and a good one yard wide. It had no railings, and it was taking the brunt of the plunging water directly. _"Well, I'm sure it's survived a lot of floods before today. It just needs to survive this one until the last man gets across."_ He turned to CT-7567. "We'll form a human chain to get across. The power of that water coming down makes it too risky to go one-by-one, and there's no perpendicular wall to get a cable into."

"Agreed," 7567 nodded. "I'll go across first."

"I'll anchor this side," 3636 said. "Pick your men to form the line."

CT-7567 could not explain why, but he felt a sense of pride that CT-3636 was leaving it up to him to choose the men. "Good. Nocturne Squad! Saber Squad! Up front!"

When the two squads reported, he realized he would have to make one change.

"You, CT-6116, is it? Yes, you step back. I'll find someone to take your place. I don't want to take any chances on losing our only medic," he said.

"Sir, whatever you have in mind, I'm perfectly able—"

"I know you're able," 7567 cut him off. "But it wouldn't be prudent. Step back." He noted how CT-6116's squad mates gave him nods of encouragement, as if to say, _"We'll be alright."_

He stepped back, and CT-7567 picked a replacement from Orange Squad.

"We're going to form a human chain to get across," 7567 explained. "You're going to face away from the cliff, arm-link and take hold of the next man's front pack strap. You've got to hold your place while the others are crossing. You're the guard rail. Once the last man has crossed, we'll bring you in link-by-link, staring with the last man. Keep your heads down." Then to the rest of the platoon. "You've got to make this fast, but be cautious. If one man goes over the side, he's likely to take others with him."

With that, CT-3636 took his place as the anchor on the near side. CT-7567 stepped out on the bridge and directed his first man into place, then the next and the next, moving along with them until there were ten men spanning the bridge, with 3636 on one side and 7567 finally arriving at and anchoring the far side.

The crossing, though not as fast as either ARC trainee would have wanted, went smoothly enough. Only two cadets slipped, but the chain of their brothers was a bulwark against disaster. By the time the last man was across and the chain was ready to be _reeled in_ , the wall of water was so thick, it was not possible to see to the other side.

CT-3636 was about to start his journey across when the rumbling sound suddenly intensified. He was almost tempted to believe it was the pounding of his heart as he looked up in full expectation of seeing a funnel cross overhead.

What he saw instead drove a spike of fear and horror into his heart.

"Go! Go! Now! Run—get off the bridge! Go!" He began pushing the cadets ahead of him, any concern for the precariousness of the bridge itself forgotten.

On the other side of the raging waterfall, CT-7567 suddenly found himself reaching for the links of his human chain as they came scrabbling and sliding across the bridge.

"What the—"

A roar unlike anything he'd heard thus far that day brought his head up.

The cliff above them where the waterfall was pouring through the fissure – the whole thing was disintegrating and plummeting down towards them.

"Move! Damn it! MOVE!" As the last man passed him, he felt the ground beneath him giving way as the landslide hit the bridge. He sprang forward. He wasn't going to make it!

And then two sets of hands had hold of his arms and were pulling him onto the path. They dragged him forward as more of the valley wall and the path came down.

When the bedlam had ended and all was silent but for the continual droning of the cyclones above and the steady fall of the rain, he pushed up onto his hands and knees and looked back over his shoulder.

The bridge was gone.

And so was CT-3636.

*osik is Mando'a for sh**  
*The Class IV is the thing Rex is wearing on Onderon (the very WWII German-looking thing)


	61. Chapter 60

_**Dear Reader, This is a short chapter. I've decided to keep the chapters much shorter and see if that increases reviewership! Readership is quite high, which is nice. But not many reviews these days! Perhaps this part of the story is boring, but I do love it regardless :-) At any rate, if you care to post a review, I would appreciate it. The saying, "I write for my own enjoyment" is true. But there is also something wonderful about sharing a story. Lastly, a little expounding on Kix's character in this chapter. If you recall how he pretty much loses it on Umbara, my goal is to sort of set that aspect of his personality here in the early days, even as a cadet. Peace, CS**_

 _ **CT-7567: Rex  
CT-6116: Kix  
CT-2080: Hardcase  
**_

Chapter 60 The Rescue

" _When wind is in the deadly East, then in the bitter rain  
I'll look for thee, and call to thee; I'll come to thee again!"_

 _The Ent and the Entwife  
_ J.R.R. Tolkien

* * *

"Fek . . . fek and all . . . "

CT-7567 rarely cursed, but there were times when circumstances warranted it. This was one of them. Still on his hands and knees, he scooted to the edge of the path and looked over.

"CT-3636!" he called out, straining his eyes through the swirling rain. "3636! Can any of you see him?"

"I see him, Sir! About fifty meters straight down!" CT-2080 shouted.

CT-7567 snatched the binoculars from his chest strap and tried to find a splash of color in a sea of brown-grey. The ruins and rubble of the hillside stretched away below him, raising his fear that no one could have survived such a calamity.

"I can't find—there—I see him now!" CT-7567 magnified the view. "He's not moving. We need to get down there. CT-6116. CT-5597—what do they call you, Jesse? Get ready to rappel. You three stay up here. We may need you to pull him—and us—back up." He turned to CT-8333-11. "Double-Ones, take the rest of the platoon and push on to the river crossing. Wait for us there. If it's under water, still wait for us."

"Yes, Sir."

Together with CT-6116 and Jesse, CT-7567 rappelled down the collapsed wall. As they neared the spot where CT-3636 was lying amidst the rubble, they could now see, through the driving rain, the bottom of the ravine; and they could hear the sound of rushing water.

CT-6116, who had identified himself early on as the platoon's medic, quickly showed himself also adept at rescue. He was the first to reach CT-3636, and as he settled carefully on the shifting slope of rock and mud, he secured his line and wasted no time getting to work.

CT-3636 was half-buried by debris. He was caked with mud, making it hard to see any injuries; but CT-6116 did not need to see the injury in order to detect it. His first action—even before taking out his medical scanner—was to check for a pulse. The old-fashioned way. With his fingers. He pressed them against 3636's neck.

" _You're alive . . . that's the first miracle,"_ he said to himself. _"Now we just need a couple more."_

He carefully ran his hands over the commander's head, checking to see if they came back with blood on them. Despite the mud and water mingling with everything, he knew the feel of blood, the different sheen it displayed even when mixed with contaminants. He knew the smell. Being a medic entailed adjusting those things to which a clone was attuned, heightening those that mattered most to a man whose job it was to save lives. CT-6116 was one of the best on Kamino when it came to his profession. He knew it. His squad mates knew it. His platoon new it. He took his job seriously. And personally.

Perhaps too personally.

Somewhere along the line, CT-6116 had developed a very un-clone-like sensitivity to the value of life. At least, the value of his fellow clones' lives. Malformed or injured clones were just as important in his eyes as were the perfectly fit and healthy. In the production of millions of units, there were bound to be glitches in the matrix, resulting in a faulty specimen; or a clone might suffer a disabling injury sustained as the result of a training accident. Yet, for CT-6116, these were not reasons for which he would ever consider abandoning a fellow clone. He was fiercely protective of his batchers, especially his squad mates; and considering what Saber Squad was, it was somewhat surprising that a clone like CT-6116 fit in so well with them.

Saber Squad had, from the earliest moments of their formation as a team, set out to surpass not only their batchers, but their pod, their group . . . why, even the entirety of their lot. They were five very ambitious, highly competitive clones. And at least four of them had the cool, calculating manner of their matrix, Jango Fett. The crucial axis in their lives was where war-fighting met victory. Their attachment to each other was the only other thing that mattered.

The exception was—and had always been—CT-6116.

In his drive towards combat, he was no different from his squad mates. He knew how to fight. He was good at it, and he had only the healthy fear that any sane being has when confronted with the prospect of violence and death.

Yet, he was so very different in other ways.

Clone troopers were conditioned to withstand the mental rigors and stresses of war. They were inculcated against the raw, visceral emotions that seeing their fellow clones blown to pieces could engender. They were taught not to dwell on the past, not to wail and obsess over the fallen. There were mortuary teams that would follow on and take care of the dead. A soldier's focus always lay ahead, never behind.

Victory was never to be hampered by a sentimental obligation to the weak or the injured.

CT-6116 could not bring himself to accept such maxims. Despite all attempts to mold him otherwise, there had arisen within him a deep aversion to the mere idea of expendable men. His fellow troopers were not expendable – not a one of them. Life itself had value, regardless of the quality of that life.

That stance—an undesirable trait by Kaminoan standards—had gotten him into trouble many times. In fact, it was only the perseverance of his squad mates that had kept him from the euphemistic Kaminoan rehabilitation program. And yet, it was that same dogged respect for life that made him a damned good medic and a favorite among his batchers.

He looked after them. They looked after him. The bonds were strong.

Now, as he balanced precariously on the unstable flow of rubble, checking CT-3636 for injuries, it did not occur to him that this was his future. Risking his life for the injured. Caring for those within and without his platoon. Making real-world decisions on how to treat an injury; for even though this was a training scenario, CT-3636's injuries were real.

None of this entered his mind. His actions came naturally, without hesitation. This was his specialty, and he had a job to do.

" _Yeah . . . a lot of blood here. Head injury."_ He pressed a bit harder over the back of the head where the blood was coming from. _"No compression. No give. It doesn't feel like a skull fracture."_ Now, as he was joined by Jesse, he withdrew his medical scanner. "Start digging him out," he ordered as he began his scan. "Looks like a moderate concussion. Broken left shoulder. Two . . . three broken ribs on the left side."

CT-7567 alit beside them. "How is he?"

CT-6116 repeated his findings. "I'm still scanning. Lieutenant, would you help dig him out?"

CT-7567 began clawing away at the mess.

"Some abdominal bleeding . . . looks like seepage mainly, but he's got a lot of internal bruising," CT-6116 continued with his diagnosis.

CT-7567, never one to beat around the bush, was direct as ever. "Is he in danger of dying?"

"My initial thought is no," 6116 replied.

"And after your initial thought?" 7567 pressed.

"It's still no." A pause. "But I don't know if he'll be able to make it over the rest of the course. We have three days ahead of us. And if those three days are anything like today, he's going to be hard-pressed to make it. It would be difficult for him right now even under ideal circumstances."

CT-5579 spoke up as he cleared away the last of the concealing mud and rubble. "Check this out, mate."

CT-6116 directed his attention towards CT-3636's left leg. The pant leg was in tatters and a long, ugly gouge ran from hip to ankle. He ran the scanner over the leg. "No broken bones, but it's a deep tear. We have to get him off this cliff side to somewhere I can treat him."

"Well, we can't go down," CT-5579 stated, looking at the roiling fluss below them.

"Then I guess it's back up," CT-7567 determined. "And we'd better get something around him right now, before this stuff we're standing on gives way. There's still a lot of water coming down." He raised his eyes towards the shelf above on which the pathway ran, and over the edge of which the three other members of Saber Squad were looking down with anxious faces, waiting for instructions.

" _If the cadre are monitoring what's going on, then they know what's happened. They may send out a team to rescue him and take him back."_ Somehow, he knew otherwise. _"I can't proceed on the assumption that they'll do that. This is all part of ARC training. If this were on the battlefield, what would we do?"_

He knew exactly what he would do. He would find a safe place for the injured man, leave someone behind to look after him, and push on with the mission.

But this was not the battlefield. And if CT-3636 did not complete this exercise, what would that do to his chances of successfully completing ARC training? Despite CT-3636's condescension, CT-7567 did not want to see him fail due to his teammates' lack of trying. If he were to wash out from his injuries, that was another story. But to wash out because his teammates could not be bothered to take the time and the risk . . .

CT-7567 made a pulling motion with one hand, and from above, a cable was lowered.


	62. Chapter 61

_**Dear Reader, Thank you very much to my reviewers: Ms CT-782 (who always seems to know what's coming next!), the Unnamed Guest, Sued13, LLTC, Random Reader, and Freedom Phantom. It truly means a lot to me to read your comments and try to address some of the questions. One of the questions asked by LLTC was if this ARC training story takes place before or after the Malevolence arc. It takes place before. As wars go, the Clone War is very short. Three years. That means a lot of things have to be jammed up front. We see Rex immediately wearing the pauldron and kama, which means he became an ARC fairly early on. I have him attending ARC training after about 4 months of active duty (4 months since the start of the war). That way he still will have 2 years and 8 months of adventures with Anakin! Now, as to this current chapter, no action whatsoever, but what I think is a very nice scene with 7567 and 3636 (Rex and Wolffe, respectively). Also, good job to the Unnamed Guest for noticing some of 3636's qualities are very wolf-like! That was what I was going for! Again, thank you for the reviews. Enjoy. Peace, CS**_

Chapter 61 Filling in the Edges

" _Many words are spoken when there's nothing to say.  
They fall upon the ears of those who don't know the way  
to read between the lines by following the signs  
that can lead to you."_

 _The Eagle Will Rise Again  
_ Alan Parsons

* * *

Voices.

At first, they sounded far away, but as his awareness returned, he realized they were very close.

One of the voices—the one speaking the most—was indistinguishable from the millions of like voices among the clone troopers. It was measured, calm and confident. The other voice . . . unh, it definitely belonged to the annoying CT-7567. There was just enough change in intonation and inflection to mark his less-than-dulcet tones.

Still, he was speaking quietly enough at the moment.

Which was good, because CT-3636 was in no mood for loud banter.

Kripes, his head was killing him. His entire body ached. He felt as if he had been used as a punching bag. Any second he would work up the determination to open his eyes. Any second. As soon as the pain abated . . .

There was a sudden brief, intense sting in his neck.

That jolted him wide-eyed. "Fek—you don't have to—to stab me to death."

"Sorry about that, Commander."

The clone looking down at him was the platoon medic. He didn't recall his number. He hadn't imagined it would be important. Even for a clone, the man looked young . . . and serious.

"It was a pre-treat in case I need to give you any injections—"

"I don't need any injections."

"Just lie still, Commander," the medic insisted. "You've got some injuries. Let me get a good—"

"What the hell happened?" 3636 cut him off, attempting to raise one hand to his aching head, but the pain stopped him. He had a vague recollection of following the pathway along the cliffs above the river. The storm had caught up with them. They'd had a difficult crossing at a footbridge—

"The cliff wall came down. You got caught in it." This was from CT-7567.

CT-3636 struggled to sit up. "So, where are we now?"

"Please stop moving around, Commander—" the medic repeated.

"We're back up on the path," CT-7567 replied. "CT-6116 is checking you over, and then we're going to decide what to do."

"What do you mean _, what to do_?" CT-3636 sounded perturbed as he continued fussing against injuries that, while he might want to ignore them, were making their presence felt more with each passing second. "We have to push on—"

"Commander, you must stop moving and let me finish my examination," CT-6116 pressed, still maintaining his medical decorum. "Please don't make me give you an order—"

"You? Give me an order? You're not even a trooper yet," CT-3636 snapped. "You're still a cadet—"

"Would you shut up and let him do his job?" CT-7567 intervened. "Or I can throw you back over the side myself. Would you prefer that?"

CT-3636, despite his pain, raised his brows in surprise . . . and a bit of amusement, which he sorely needed at the moment. "That's pretty insubordinate . . . _lieutenant_."

"Yeah, well, there's a lot more where that came from if you won't just lie still and let him do what he has to do," 7567 replied. "And the sooner you let him do it, the sooner we'll all be able to get moving and off this cliff side. It's not exactly a good time slouching around in this wind and rain." He waited for a second. "Besides, rank doesn't matter here, remember? We'll all on equal footing."

CT-3636 was silent for a moment. He knew there was no sense in arguing. The best thing to do now was to face the truth of the situation and move ahead accordingly. Strangely enough, he took a certain comfort in the fact that it was CT-7567 who was there to share the burden. One thing he felt certain of: CT-7567 would not waste time puttering around in indecisive circles.

"Okay," he conceded, exhaling heavily. "So . . . how bad's the damage?"

"Not as bad as you'd think," CT-6116 replied. He ticked off the list of injuries, finishing with an upbeat, "Nothing that a few days in a bacta tank can't fix. And I'll even get you off to a head start. As soon as we reach someplace out of this rain, I'll use some of the bacta patches—"

"Why can't you use them now?" CT-4441 asked brusquely. He'd been looking on with interest, and now, in true form, he butt in where he did not really belong.

But CT-6116 was used to it. In fact, it was a trait he rather liked in his squad mate. "Because these wounds need cleaning and irrigating. I can't do that here with all the rain pouring down. I'm going to do a wrap job for now, and once we reach the caves, I can do a proper job," CT-6116 replied.

"How far off are the caves?" CT-7567 asked.

It was CT-5579 who answered. "The map showed the nearest ones on the other side of the river crossing."

"And how far off is that?"

"The crossing is two, two-and-a-half kilometers," 5579 replied. "It's another half kilometer beyond that."

CT-3636 pushed up onto his elbows. "I guess I can hobble that far—"

"No, Sir," 6116 protested immediately. "There's no way that leg will bear the—"

"You said it's not broken," 3636 cut him off. "That means I can make it. Now, help me up." He reached up a hand to CT-4441, who grasped him at the elbow and, with CT-2080's help, got him to his feet.

All the while, CT-6116 voiced vehement disagreement. "Sir, no bones are broken, but the muscle is damaged. You'll need—" He fell abruptly silent as the commander—his charge-in attempting to take a step forward, immediately collapsed. But for the two men holding him up, he would have fallen.

"Sir! The muscle can't handle the weight! Now, I'm ordering you to stop trying to walk and let us carry you!" CT-6116 demanded.

"How are you going to carry me? You don't have any way . . . of . . . carrying . . . " His words came haltingly as he watched the medic reach into his pack, withdraw a 25 by 25 centimeter metal square with a patch of canvas in the center. The press of a button and the square extended into a rectangular-shaped litter. A stretcher.

"You just happen to have that kind of osik in your pack?" CT-3636 challenged.

CT-6116 smiled expectantly. "I'm a _medic_ , Sir. It's part of my kit."

"Plus, he just likes to show off like that," CT-2080 added. "Always prepared."

"And aren't you the luckier for it?" CT-6116 retorted light-heartedly.

"You'll never hear me complain," 2080 replied.

"Not even when I ask you to take the first carry," 6116 said.

"Eh, I knew you would," came the rejoinder. He looked to CT-2085-4. "You take the other end, explosives-man. I can't do this alone."

The two crouched down at either end of the stretcher.

"All aboard, Commander," CT-2080 beamed. "Leaving the station."

* * *

It was the longest two or three kilometers CT-3636 had ever known.

Being toted around like an exalted invalid did not sit well with him. He felt embarrassed and useless. His various pains had started to intensify, but CT-6116 was unwilling to give him any pain killer until he'd had a chance to do a more thorough evaluation of his head injury.

Even so, CT-3636 had to give 6116 credit. The medic had stayed at his side to the degree the path would allow, inquiring of him often how he was feeling, checking the temporary bindings of his injuries, and offering a demeanor that even 3636's critical manner could not fault, a demeanor that made CT-3636's forced inaction at least tolerable.

Despite his pain, CT-3636's most bothersome problem was the jumble of thoughts swirling through his head as to whether or not he would be able to complete ARC training. How badly was he injured? How long would he need to heal? What would his fellow trainees think of him? And how would he ever swallow down the humiliation of returning from ARC training without having graduated? What would General Plo Koon say? What would happen to his credibility among the troops?

His thoughts were disrupted by a voice.

"Lieutenant, look up there! It's Bead!"

CT-3636 raised his head in time to see Cadet Bead approaching at a trot, and although the cadet went up to CT-7567, 3636 asserted himself and his rank.

"Report, Cadet," he ordered from his stretcher. "Where's everyone else?

Bead stood at attention. "Sir, we found some caves up ahead and took cover inside. They weren't on the map."

"How far?"

"Not 200 meters, Sir."

A sense of relief washed over CT-3636 as he lay back on the stretcher. "Take us there."

* * *

"How are you holding up, Commander?"

CT-7567 hunkered down beside CT-3636 where he was being tended to by CT-6116.

Over an hour had passed since they'd entered the cave. 6116 had immediately gone to work on 3636's injuries while CT-7567 went among the men to check their spirits as well as their physical condition.

Among the six squads of cadets, they had between them twelve compact heat generators—devices no larger than a man's fist but capable of giving off adjustable warmth within a radius of four meters. Most of the men were standing around these generators, trying to dry out their soaked uniforms. Remarkably, they all seemed to be even-keeled if not cheerful. Their concern was more for the commander's welfare than their own; and the chance to get out of the rain and warm up a bit, while clearly a welcome relief, could be seen more as an opportunity to ensure the commander's safety than a break from the weather.

"Well enough," CT-3636 replied, then with a grim expression, he added, "I'm just waiting for CT-6116 to get me back on my feet. There's no way I'm going to be carried the rest of the way."

CT-7567 raised his eyes to the medic, who was busily wrapping the now cleaned and sterilized leg injury. "Is that possible? Will he be able to walk on that leg?"

"Not without help," came the curt response. It was clear from his tone that this subject had already been discussed—or more likely, argued about.

"Well, there are thirty-one of us who can give that help," 7567 offered. "We need to finish this as a team."

"With a broken collar bone and broken ribs, it will be hard to find any way to do a carry that doesn't aggravate his injuries," CT-6116 pointed out. "A litter is the best option."

"That will slow us down too much," CT-3636 balked.

"I'm not concerned with speed at this point," 6116 replied. "My goal is to ensure your health and safety."

"The platoon wants to move fast," CT-3636 stated. "I've noticed how competitive you all are."

"We are competitive," 6116 conceded, "But it's my job to act in the best interest of the health and welfare of the men. Sometimes, my squad mates—and my fellow batchers—get a little carried away with wanting to be first at all costs. I'm here to rein them in."

"Well, you're not going to rein them in this time," 3636 said bluntly.

CT-6116 settled back on his heels. "I can't give _them_ orders," he admitted. "But I _can_ give you orders where your health is concerned, Sir. And believe me, my squad mates will back me up one hundred and ten percent."

CT-7567 hid the smile forming on his lips. He was already deciding he liked this man.

"I'm finished here for now," 6116 concluded. "I've given you a low-dose pain killer, so that should help. Lieutenant, will you stay with him while I go see if I can dry out?"

"Yes, I'll stay," 7567 nodded. "Go on. And, uh, good job, 6116." He settled down beside the commander. "Are you warm enough? I can move the generator closer."

"I'm fine."

CT-7567 did not need any encouragement to get straight to the point. "I think 6116 is right. You're not going to be able to walk, and it's going to be damned near impossible to get you on your feet with your other injuries."

"That may turn out to be the case."

"And if it does?"

"I'll worry about it when the time comes." The answer was almost petulant, but that did not dissuade CT-7567.

"That will be too late. We need to plan our course of action now." A pause. "And if carrying you on the litter is the best option, it's what we need to do."

"I'm not going to be carried around—"

"What are the choices, Commander? Look . . . if you play it safe for the rest of this exercise, chances are they can fix you up enough back at base so that you can complete the school. If you bust yourself up even worse over the next few days, it may end up washing you right out of training," 7567 explained bluntly. "It's like 6116 said, a few days in a bacta tank will probably take care of that leg injury – or a good part of it. Why risk it?"

CT-3636 regarded him with a perplexed scowl. "What do you care if I complete training or not?"

"It's like I said before: we do this as a team," CT-7567 replied. "More than a team. We're all brothers."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," CT-3636 said, but there was an undercurrent in his voice that belied his words. It was almost a tinge of wistful desire, as if the idea were appealing even though he could not accept it. "We're not brothers. We're not someone's children. We were created in laboratories, for the sole purpose of fighting and dying." He was silent for a moment. "And some of us will die without ever being in the fight."

CT-7567 considered. CT-3636's words struck him as odd and unexpected. "I can't tell if you're complaining or not."

"Just a statement of the facts," 3636 replied. "I've heard you call other clones _brother_. But we're not. Not in the true sense of the word.

"I don't care about the true sense of the word," 7567 grinned. "To me, we're brothers-all of us."

CT-3636 sighed in resignation. By the Force, the lieutenant could wear a soul down. It might not be easy to like him, but it was impossible to hate him. He was irrepressible, and 3636 imagined that such a trait was highly valued by the men who comprised the ranks of the combat arms.

"I'm not in the mood to argue," he said. "Let's get back to the subject."

"Which is how you're going to finish this exercise," 7567 concluded.

They were both silent for some time.

At last, CT-3636 spoke in a low voice. "It's dangerous terrain. And if this weather continues, that makes it more treacherous." He drew in a long, purposeful breath. "We would need the full four days to complete the course. You won't make that if you have to carry me around, whether it's on the litter or with my arm over someone's shoulder. You're going to have to leave me behind."

CT-7567 snorted. "Now, _that's_ the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"It's what you'd do if this were a real-world situation—"

"No, that isn't true," 7567 disagreed. "You know as well as I do that it would depend on the circumstances. And under _these_ circumstances, there's no reason for you to stay behind. If you don't complete this exercise, you'll be sent packing. And if your injuries were grave, the cadre would have already sent a team out to retrieve you. Their satellites can see through all this weather, probably through the walls of this cave. The fact you're still here tells me they don't think the situation is life-threatening . . . not yet, at least."

CT-3636 actually chuckled. "Not that it would matter. They've lost trainees before. It's expected."

"Well, they'd better not expect it from this team," 7567 replied. "And I don't think you should expect that the platoon would agree to leave you behind. I don't think the men would tolerate that idea."

CT-3636 made a dismissive sound. "What makes you say that? They're not really our platoon. We're not their batchers. When this is over in four days, we'll probably never see them again. They just want to get to the finish line . . . and look good doing it."

CT-7567 shook his head. "You know that's not how it is with combat units. Never leave a man behind. Isn't that what we've been taught, even from basic? Even if it's not always practical or possible, it's what we've been taught. Fighting men know that."

"I'm not in a combat unit." The words fell like bricks into the space between them.

After a moment, CT-7567, confused, said, "But you _are_ in a combat unit. General Plo Koon-"

"I'm a staff officer. I plan the battles. I don't fight them."

And suddenly, CT-7567's picture of CT-3636 began to fill in more fully around the edges.

"I'm not usually in a position where I have to decide whether or not to leave anyone behind," 3636 went on.

CT-7567 was pensive. "You should be. You should be leading men. No offense to the job of tactical planner—it's an important job, but it's not the right job for you."

"You've known me for two weeks and you think you already know what's right for me?" CT-3636 said with a mock sneer.

"I always know what's right—for everyone." A smile. "And I know these cadets would all feel like failures if they had to leave one of their own behind. For this exercise, we're one of their own." He gave a quirky grin. "Although, in the future, you might not want to call them _fool cadets_."

CT-3636 gave a short laugh, aggravating the pain in his side. "What for? You remember being a cadet, right? We were all fools."

CT-7567 assumed an affected indignance. "I never was."

 _ **A little bit of that mock arrogance we see from Rex after the battle on Kamino where he tells Fives and Echo that their bravery reminds him of himself. Love that scene!**_


	63. Chapter 62

_**Dear Reader, So much for my short chapters. I just couldn't find a good place to draw a break! Anyway, this chapter is actually based on a true event as related to me by a WWII vet from the Royal Army Service Corps. Of course, I've embellished it quite a bit, but it does have the ring of truth to it! You might also see my "bow" to one of the funniest commercials I've ever seen. Peace and happy reading! CS**_

 _ **CT-7567: Rex  
CT-4441: Top  
CT-5799: Jesse  
CT-6116: Kix  
CT-2080: Hardcase  
CT-2085-4: Pitch  
**_

Chapter 62 The Crossing

" _From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those whence it had issued."_

 _Eleonora  
_ Edgar Allan Poe

* * *

"How's the commander?" CT-4441 asked as CT-6116 joined him and the rest of his squad mates around one of the heat generators.

"All-in-all, pretty well, I think," came the reply. "His injuries are serious but not fatal – unless he does something stupid."

CT-2080 grinned. He detected an unspoken implication. "Is he the kind of officer to do something stupid?"

"Mm, I don't know, really," 6116 said honestly. "I think he's got a good head on his shoulders, but he's stubborn. He spent half of my examination telling me that he would be able to finish the exercise on his feet. After getting a close look at his leg and his other injuries, I knew that wouldn't be possible, and he _still_ kept arguing with me."

Jesse spoke thoughtfully. "He doesn't want to be a burden."

"I told him he could stay behind, here in the cave, that we could leave a couple men to look after him," CT-6116 went on. "You'd think I had threatened to turn him over to the enemy." A wry grin twisted its way into his expression. "I'm pretty sure he hates my guts now."

"Well, of course, he does!" CT-4441 huffed. "Look, LB—"

CT-6116 rolled his eyes. "Would you _please_ not call me that."

"Fine, fine. Now, look here, Little Brother—"

"You know, you're the only one who uses the word 'brother'—"

"Not so! The lieutenant's been using it all day," 4441 pointed out. "And if he's saying it, then I'm in damned good company." He cleared his throat in a manner that suggested he'd been temporarily diverted from making his main point and was now returning to it. "Anyway, _as I was saying_ : you've got all those medical smarts, but a little common sense goes a long way. He's a fekking commander, for one thing, and he's in ARC training. Those are competitive slots, and I can guarantee you he doesn't want to be coddled. Not by anyone, especially a cadet he's been put in charge of. Do you get it, LB?"

CT-6116 had always appreciated CT-4441's direct, graceless way of making a point. Among his batchers, it would be accurate to say that CT-4441 was the one with whom he had the tightest bond; although, in CT-6116's case, it was not an exaggeration to say that he truly loved all his batchers. Still, his strongest sentiments were reserved for the four men who comprised his squad mates. Theirs was a sort of agape that held them together through the rigors of life on Kamino and prepared them for the war that was their destiny. They could be gruff and chafing with each other. Their competitive spirit tended to make them push each other beyond acceptable limits. Yet, they were as close as five men could be. When one was threatened, all reacted.

"I wasn't coddling him," CT-6116 demurred. "I was being reasonable in light of his condition."

"Sometimes passion trumps reason," 4441 posed.

"Not when you're a medic," 6116 pushed back with a challenging glint in his eye. "My reason will always trump a patient's passion."

"Good grief, you two . . . separate corners, enh?" This from Jesse.

"We're not fighting," CT-4441 quipped. "I'm showing my passion . . . and my undying respect for Little Brother's reason."

CT-6116 shook his head. "You'd better hope you never end up as one of my patients."

"Ha! I've already been your patient a dozen times at least!" 4441 replied. "Best care this side of the Outer Rim."

CT-2085-4 nudged the medic. "Just take the compliment and ignore him," he prodded. He unwrapped a nutrient bar and made a face of disgust. "You'd think they could figure out a way to make these things taste like something other than burnt hair," he said before stuffing one end into his mouth.

CT-2080 leaned in and bit a chunk off the other end.

CT-2085-4 spoke around the remaining bar in his mouth. "You could have just asked me for a piece."

"What are you griping about? I've been stealing food from you since we were batch-kits."

"Mm-hm, and starting to show it, I might add," 2085-4 teased.

"Right," 2080 said, patting his perfectly flat stomach. "It's all muscle."

For the next thirty minutes, they continued to converse amongst themselves, staying huddled around the generator.

Then Jesse drew their attention. "The lieutenant's coming over."

They all straightened up and took on a more formal stance.

"Relax," CT-7567 said. "I just wanted to tell you all that I was impressed with how you worked together back there on the path, getting the commander to safety."

"Thank you, Sir," CT-4441 answered for all of them.

"Sir, the question has come up about the rest of the exercise. There's still a long way to go," Jesse tread carefully. "CT-6116 thinks it would be best for the commander to stay here."

"I appreciate your concern," CT-7567 replied, "But there's no way he's staying back. I won't allow it."

"Sir, for his own safety—" CT-6116 began, but CT-7567 cut him off.

"Safety isn't the final word," the lieutenant said, much to the others' surprise, for they had always been taught that safety was paramount, even though they, themselves, had often traded safety for victory. To hear someone in a position of authority push the golden ring of safety off its pedestal . . . that was unheard of.

"What good is your own safety if every man around you dies? I don't much value safety in a world where I'm the only survivor." He paused. "This is a training exercise. It's meant to test our character as much as it is our skills. I, for one, like to make things happen, to make the impossible, possible. The question is, what type of men are you?"

CT-6116 spoke up right away, completely ignoring the lofty rhetoric. "Sir, I've already told you both . . . he can't walk on that leg, and he says he won't be carried on a litter anymore—"

"Leave that to me," 7567 insisted. "I'll keep him on the basting litter. What I need to know is, can this platoon get him safely to the end." He was not asking the question as much as posing the challenge.

"There's nothing we can't do," CT-2080 boasted. "We're the best squad in the best platoon on Kamino." A cocky pause. "And once we enter the war, we'll be the best there, too."

CT-7567 gave a one-sided grin. "That's what I like to hear."

* * *

By the following morning, the storm had passed. The winds had died down to the occasional gusty breeze. The sound of the funnels had disappeared. The rain had stopped. The forces of nature had calmed.

To be sure, the sky was still grey with threatening clouds, but all was peaceful.

Just before sunrise, CT-7567 had taken Jesse, Double-Ones and Chips down to check out the river crossing. What they encountered was a waterway completely enraged and tearing through its narrow fissure with such ferocity that the four men could barely hear themselves speak above the din.

"I don't know how high it's risen above its regular level, but there's no sign of where the crossing is," Double-Ones noted. "The path just gets swallowed up by the river's edge up ahead. If we tried to cross here, there's no way to get to the top of the opposite cliffs unless we climb."

CT-7567 could see right away that Double-Ones was correct.

"We're not going to cross," he determined. "We're going back up on top. There was another path leading up from those caves. I saw it when we left. Does it show up on the map?"

Double-Ones withdrew the polysteen map and expanded it. "Well, the caves aren't on the map, but it does look like there's a faint line here. That could be the path you saw, Sir."

"Does it lead back up to the plateau?"

"It appears to."

Cadet Chips spoke up. "Do you think it's safe to go back up on top, Lieutenant?"

Before CT-7567 could answer, Jesse replied, "Safety isn't the final word."

CT-7567 caught his glance and nodded his approval.

His point had been taken.

Less than two hours later, they were back on top of the plateau.

With CT-3636.

On the litter.

He had grudgingly accepted that this was his only true option for completing the exercise and hopefully remaining in ARC training. CT-7567 had made it easier for him by conferring with him on every decision; and the men of the platoon comported themselves with respect and deference. After all, they knew that any officer who worked directly for such a renowned Jedi as General Plo Koon had to be one of the best, regardless of the gruff manner he displayed. Even CT-6116 had resigned himself to the fact that his recommendation had been overridden, and so he had set his mind to making sure that the commander was as comfortable and protected as possible.

And considering what lay ahead, it would not necessarily be an easy job.

The plateau was riddled with tiny streams that had swollen into miniature torrents. And the peaks to the north, shrouded in cloud, hid what all of the clones already suspected: it was still raining at the higher levels. That rain would keep the streams raging.

After an hour traversing the rocky ground, CT-7567 called a halt. He called over Double-Ones and Jesse. He dropped to one knee beside CT-3636 who pushed up onto his elbows.

"We've been moving in a relatively north direction towards the point, but we've been avoiding as many of these streams as possible. We're running out of real estate. We're going to have to cross at some area," 7567 stated. "Let's see the map."

Double-Ones produced the map.

"A lot of these streams don't even show on the map, Sir," Double-Ones pointed out. "They're so small, they probably don't even exist until it rains."

"Where are we on the map right now?" CT-3636 asked.

"Just about here, Sir," Double-Ones replied.

CT-3636 studied the map. "I need to get to my feet. I need to see the terrain."

"We'll help you up," 7567 offered. "Just be careful or we'll have the medic breathing down our throats."

Once on his feet, CT-3636 scanned the scene before him. They were on the top of a low rise, but it was high enough to afford a good view of the ground that stood between them and the mountain towards which they were headed. Half a kilometer straight ahead, a fairly wide stream roiled well beyond its boundaries. There were no walls or embankments to use from which to launch a cable crossing; and it was too wide and too fast to risk a water crossing.

Thirty degrees to the east, there offered a much more likely prospect. Just out of the peaks, where the same river came down onto the plateau, it emerged between two steep, rocky banks that formed a flume of sorts.

This would be the crossing point.

"It shouldn't take us more than an hour to get there," Jesse opined. "The ground between here and there looks like it might a big trickier than what we've been crossing. The rocks have been getting more broken up the farther we've gone."

"Impress on the men the need to watch their step," CT-7567 instructed. "Get everyone on their feet. Time to move out."

The platoon was on the move once again. By the time they came to the river's edge, the men were spattered up to their waists in mud, but their spirits were still good. The prospect of getting off the plateau and into the foothills had much to do with it. Not to mention the fact that the clouds in the southern sky were blackening again – a sign that more weather was on the way.

The moment they came to a halt, CT-6116 was at CT-3636's side to check on him, although CT-7567 first helped the commander to his feet to survey the scene.

"Well, Commander, this should prove interesting," 7567 remarked. "Any ideas?" he asked, although he himself already had quite a few thoughts on how to cross.

"Call a few of the men over, see what they can come up with," 3636 replied.

It was not the answer CT-7567 had expected, but he could tell by looking at him that the commander was starting to feel the effects of his injuries. He was peaked—even for a clone. The alertness in his eyes was giving way to a cloudiness that might have been due to the painkiller as much as the pain. And even the act of speaking seemed to leave him breathless. The trip over the uneven, rocky terrain had been difficult – even for a man on a litter.

CT-7567 nodded. "Will do." He called over CT-4441, CT-5579, and Double-Ones as CT-6116 helped 3636 back down onto the litter.

"Take a look and give me ideas," the lieutenant said as he surveyed the scene himself.

It didn't take thirty seconds before CT-4441 came forth with his suggestion.

"We can get a cable across here," CT-4441 suggested. He turned so he could speak to both commanding officers. "We could get a couple men to the other side and then send another cable back to attach to your litter, Commander. Then we could pull you across. We could rig some straps to these bars and suspend the litter from the first cable—"

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," CT-3636 said.

"You can't pull yourself across—" CT-6116 began, but 3636 cut him off with perhaps more bite than he'd intended.

"I know my limitations, medic," he said thickly. "Don't interrupt us again."

CT-7567 felt a stab of embarrassment on 6116's part. There had been no reason to be insulting and dismissive of the medic. But if he thought, for one second, that CT-6116 would wilt under the commander's brusqueness, he was wrong. Apparently, the medic had reached his limit of accommodation.

"With all due respect, Commander, I could very easily declare right here and now that you're medically unfit to retain command, and I can put the lieutenant in _sole_ command of the platoon," came the response, spoken with fierce calm and certitude. "I may be a cadet, but a cadet in the field medic advanced school. I don't have to be on active duty yet to make a call. The fact is this: you cannot pull yourself across that river. You either go on the litter or we find a place to shelter you until the rest of the platoon gets to the finish line." A pause during which he pinned the commander with a piercing stare. "Sir . . . trust us to do our jobs."

CT-7567 waited with curiosity and not a little smattering of anxiety to see what CT-3636's reaction would be. He felt completely put on the spot when the commander looked to him, apparently to see if he agreed with 6116's assertions.

CT-7567 was an honest man, if not always an obedient or orthodox one. "I agree with CT-6116." Then he directed his gaze pointedly at the medic. "Not necessarily his manner of addressing the issue, but the general idea that we should use CT-4441's suggestion."

CT-3636 waited before answering. At last, he said, somewhat unexpectedly, "I hadn't said I wasn't going to take his suggestion. I said I didn't like the sound of it." Now, it was his turn to dress down the medic, but he was not as caustic as was his normal demeanor. "If CT-6116 hadn't interrupted, if he'd let me finish speaking, he would have heard me say that, even though I didn't like the idea, I knew there was no other choice." A pause. "You have a lot of power as a medic, but it doesn't put you in charge and it doesn't mean you automatically have wisdom. Next time, let the person finish talking."

CT-6116 actually appeared to flush a bit. "Understood. My apologies, Commander."

The moment was over, and the discussion of the crossing recommenced.

When it was over and CT-4441 and CT-7567 moved off to get the men organized, CT-3636 motioned to 6116. The medic dropped back to one knee beside him.

"You're a smart guy, 6116," the commander complimented. "And I'm glad you're here." He reached up in a flash with his good arm, took hold of 6116's collar and yanked him down so their faces were within inches of each other. And with genuine humor—humor he'd not expected to find within himself, certainly not under these circumstances—he warned, "But if you ever jump in my words again, you'll find your first active duty assignment will be with the mortuary teams."

CT-6116 grinned. "I wouldn't want that, Sir. I won't interrupt you again, I give you my word." His grin broadened, "Unless I think it's warranted."

* * *

One of Predator Squad's cadets fired the cable, landing a solid bullseye in the wall of rock on the far side of the flume. In front of the wall was a good sized ledge, at least two meters deep, that ran the length of the watery chute before making a gradual climb up to the level ground about fifty meters downstream.

"Nice shot," 7567 praised him. "Now secure this end."

Once the near side was planted, CT-7567 made to begin his crossing.

CT-5579 spoke out. "Lieutenant, are you sure you wouldn't rather have one of us go first? Test it out?"

CT-7567 regarded him with cool authority. "I'm always first, kid."

And that settled it.

The river at this point was no more than twenty meters across, churning and spitting below the cable. It was filled with flotsam from the higher elevations: tree limbs, massive clumps of earth and rock, furze bushes, and unidentifiable jetsam.

CT-7567 began his crossing using a front crawl with his body on top of the cable. But the turbulence coming up from the flume soon made him change his posture to a hanging ankle-cross. He made it to the other side in a little more than thirty seconds, did a quick check on the cable anchorage, then motioned for the next man to come over.

CT-5579 was that next man, and his crossing was without incident.

Three more men came over, then it was the commander's turn. His litter was rigged below the first cable. A second cable, fired from the far side, was fixed to one end of the litter; a third cable to the other end, forming a sort of pulley system.

"Have a good trip, Commander," CT-2080 quipped.

"You'd better hope I do," came the curt reply.

As it turned out, his crossing was smooth and perfectly executed.

As the rest of the men made their crossing, each in turn, CT-7567 joined 3636, 5579, and Double-Ones in looking at the map. They were studying the routes through the mountains.

"It looks like this pass runs just below the tree line, and the map only shows the one river at the bottom of the main valley for at least three kilometers. That's where the first feeder stream comes in," Double-Ones pointed out.

"Where are the caves?" 7567 inquired.

"Here, about one-point-five klicks, just as we reach the northern foothills," CT-5579 replied.

"What if we stay along the eastern foothills? Is that an option?" the lieutenant asked.

"It's an option, but it's not heading in the direction we want to go," 5579 said. "There don't appear to be any more major crossings between here and the caves. Why would you want to stay along the eastern side, Sir?"

CT-7567 nodded towards the south. "That's why."

All eyes turned southward. The black clouds that had stayed just above the horizon since the platoon had started out that morning were now more than halfway across the plateau and moving quickly.

"Fek and all," Double-Ones cursed. "I've been watching the sky all day. When did they get that close?"

"Within the last hour," 7567 replied. "At that speed, they're going to be fully on top of us in less than two hours. And if they're bringing those tornadoes again, we're going to be in trouble. We've got to hurry the crossing."

"Send over another line," CT-3636 ordered. "We can have two men crossing at a time."

"Yes, Sir," 5579 nodded sharply. He looked back over his shoulder. "4441, tell one of them to fire over another cable and start crossing two at a time. We're up against the weather."

But no sooner had he finished speaking than an outcry went up. Troops on both banks were gesturing towards the flume upstream.

All attention changed focus. A massive, submerged tree had snagged some cranny on the river's bed, and now it reared up out of the water, appearing almost as a demonically possessed figure.

CT-7567's eyes darted toward the cable, and he jumped to his feet. There was a clone little more than halfway across. "Hurry! Move it, trooper!"

Beside him, he heard a man curse under his breath. It was CT-5579. "6116 . . . fek—fek . . . " His voice rose into an urgent scream. "Get the fek off of there! Come on! Go! Go!"

The force of the water had brought the tree upright and now it was forcing it over very slowly, like the needle on a meter; and when it had passed the tipping point, it came crashing back down, only for the trunk end to now tumble up from the water.

"He's not going to make it," CT-4441 swallowed, dropping his pack.

And he was right. The next rotation of the tree brought the trunk down squarely on top of the cable. As the cable was torn from the wall on the far side, it snapped like a snake through air, catching Jesse in the shoulder with such force that he was pushed right over the edge.

But CT-4441 had him by the sleeve. An instant later, Double-Ones was at his side, and together they hauled him to safety.

Or relative safety, as it was. For it appeared that the tree had lodged once again, and the pounding of the water was turned and tilting it towards the ledge. A loud, cracking sound preceded the explosive splintering of one of the branches, which, as it sprung back against the torque being exerted against it, caught the three clones full force, smashing them against the flume wall at the rear of the ledge.

Jesse, dazed and bruised, was nevertheless coherent enough to take action. He stumbled to his feet and began running—staggering—downstream, shrugging off his pack as he went.

"Jesse!" CT-7567 shouted, going after him. He could see a dozen clones on the far side, running full-tilt downstream as well, trying to catch sight of the missing man. He could hear the footfalls of clones following behind him. But it wasn't until they came out of the flume to where the river widened a bit that he caught sight of CT-6116, floundering in the water at the fringes of some broken off branches.

He was about to jump in when a man ran past him and without hesitation flung himself down into the fluss. "Who was that?!"

A gruff and angry voice burst out close behind him. "Fekking, stupid Jesse! Damn it!"

He turned to see CT-4441 beside him, looking like he was about to jump in. CT-7567 grabbed his arm.

"No one else goes into the river!" he commanded. "Let's go! Keep them in sight! Move, troopers!"

In the water, Jesse struggled to get reach CT-6116. There was so much debris that he kept getting hit and spun around to the point where he was having trouble even knowing which way to turn. But at last, he grappled past the jagged branch tips just as 6116's tenuous grip gave way, and the medic disappeared for an instant under the surface, his pack weighing him down like an anchor.

Jesse grabbed him just as he went under, and he found himself being dragged down by the combined weight of 6116's body and pack. Kicking with his feet to stay at least close to the surface, he felt along 6116's chest and waist, released the snaps on the pack and slid it off his shoulders, letting it sink away from them.

Together, the two men came to the surface, and that was when Jesse realized that 6116 was still conscious, though too exhausted or too injured to keep himself afloat. He was not worried about the medic panicking and drowning them both; he was more worried about where they could get to shore before his own strength gave out. He draped an arm over the branch, hoping it would help keep their heads above water until an escape presented itself.

His leg struck against something hard – a submerged rock – then the current swept him past and into another rock. Another followed. It suddenly occurred to Jesse that the river had grown so large and wide at this point that the rocky terrain that had surrounded it had now turned it into the rapids through which he and 6116 were plummeting headlong.

And suddenly, the branch that had been acting as their buoy, reared up like a skeletal hand from a nightmare as it jammed into a crevice below the surface. Jesse tried to weave around it, but the current was too fast and too strong. He lost his grip on the supporting end of the branch, and he and 6116 went crashing through the dagger-like ends of several broken lesser branches until they plowed up against the thickest part which was standing vertically.

Jesse wrapped one arm around the tree while the other arm remained fast around 6116. Directly below them, the stream dropped nearly five meters over a rocky precipice into a churning pool lined with the foam and froth of accumulated detritus. Another fifty meters beyond that, the stream widened even more and slowed down considerably.

Jesse looked to both banks through the spray. There was no sign of his fellow platoon members. He had no idea if any of them were nearby; and even if they had been, it would be a hard reach to get to him and 6116, isolated in the middle of the torrent. He couldn't count on much help; but without any more surprises, he just might be able to get his squad mate past this last bit of fast water and into the slower current. He had to do something soon, for his own body was beginning to fatigue.

"6116!" he shouted over the rushing water.

CT-6116 raised his head and replied with a slurry, "I hear you."

"It's not much further! Can you make it a little further?!"

"Yes, I can make it."

"Then we're going to let go of this tree and go over the fall here!" He drew 6116 tighter against his body; and as he moved, he noticed a dull, throbbing pain in his shoulder and side, in the same area where he had been hit by the cable. Some part of his brain registered that the injury might be troublesome down the road, but there was nothing he could do for it at the moment. He was occupied with much greater concerns.

He was about to push away from the tree, but then he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Looking once again to the bank, he felt what might have been a premature sense of relief at the sight of his platoon mates.

From the moment Jesse had jumped into the water after 6116, men on both banks had gone chasing after them.

On the far bank, CT-7567 led the way with the remaining three members of Saber Squad hot on his heels and another half-dozen behind them. The water was moving so fast, they could not keep up with their men in the river. Not to mention the difficulty of the terrain once the river left the flume.

"We can't lose sight of them!" 7567 shouted. "Come on! Move faster! If we can get ahead of them, we can run a cable across!"

But they were not going to be able to get ahead of them. They were, in fact, falling further behind them.

And then abruptly, right at the precipice of a shallow waterfall, Jesse and 6116's forward movement came to a pounding stop as the branch onto which they'd been holding jammed into some below-the-surface trap.

"There! There! This is our chance!" CT-7567 had mastered the calm yell, which went a long way to keeping his men from panicking or overreacting. He turned to Double-Ones. "Get a cable across!"

Double-Ones waved to the men on the other side to clear way; then he fired the cable.

CT-7567 flung one leg over the cable before he felt a hand on his arm.

"Sir, we can't risk you going out there, especially with the commander injured." It was CT-4441. "Let me go out."

"This is my responsibility—"

"It's also your responsibility to get the platoon through the rest of this exercise," 4441 persisted. "Whatever happens here, they're going to need you. Lieutenant, please."

"He's right, Sir," CT-2080.

CT-7567 knew they were speaking the truth, and there was no time to lose. Reluctantly, he conceded with a nod. "Go on. Be careful."

CT-4441 did not hesitate. He pulled down his goggles and began sliding out along the cable.

In the river, Jesse saw his squad mate approaching along the cable that had perfectly threaded between the branches above him.

"It's 4441!" he shouted into 6116's ear. "He's coming out to us!"

He received no response.

"6116? 6116!"

"I hear you."

"Hold on just a little longer, mate!" he urged. "We'll be out of this in—unh! Agghhh!"

The branch shifted, popping free and listing over the fall. Jesse lost his grip on the branch, and together, he and 6116 toppled over the edge and down into the roiling pool below. Jesse clawed and thrashed his way to the surface, keeping one hand buried in the medic's jacket at all times. When they finally broke free of the hissing, spewing trap, it was to find themselves back in the main current, being carried rapidly downstream . . .

. . . and now with nothing to hold onto to keep them afloat. The branch was gone.

Above, on the cable, CT-4441 had hung on for dear life as the branch's movement had snagged the cable, causing it to sway back and forth but without giving way. However, the instant CT-4441 saw that his two squad mates were gone, he let go of the cable and dropped into the water, going over not far behind them.

"4441!" CT-2085-4 cried out.

"Come on! Come on!" CT-7567 shouted as he began racing down the path again.

In the river, 4441 rode the current and struggled to get closer to Jesse and 6116. The river had widened over the flood plain, slowing down though still formidable. This worked to his advantage, and after nearly three minutes of trying to catch up to them, he got a hand on the back of Jesse's collar.

"Jesse!"

"I can't keep—him—a-above water any-more," Jesse gasped.

CT-4441 nabbed a furze bush bobbing along beside him. "Grab on!" He reached out and pulled Jesse into the closely packed branches, still covered with their prickly leaves. "Do you have a good hold on him? Don't let go of him! Whatever you do, don't let go of him."

"I've got him," Jesse replied, using the last of his strength to haul 6116 up just enough to get one of his arms over a clump of furze. He then clamped his own arm down over top of his in an attempt to keep him from slipping loose and getting pulled beneath the surface.

CT-4441 looked to the bank. CT-7567 and the others were following along the path.

"Fire a cable!" he shouted, unheard above the sound of the water. He raised a hand and made a shooting motion.

"He wants us to fire a cable to him!" CT-2080 exclaimed. He drew his blaster and began to affix the cable.

"Wait! Stand by!" CT-7567 ordered. "That's going to be tricky. Who's the best shot?"

"CT-4441, but he's out there in the—" CT-2085-4 replied.

"Hurry! Hurry or they're all going to drown!" CT-2080 barked.

"Lieutenant, I can do it."

CT-7567 turned to see Cadet Bead step forward. "I'm a sure shot," the cadet said with certainty.

"Even with them being in the river?" 7567 asked.

"It won't be a problem, Sir."

"Do it."

Bead affixed the cable, lined up his sites, followed the movement of the furze bush and its passengers for three seconds, then fired. The cable shot through the branches just above CT-4441's head. He reached up, grabbed the cable and wound it around the trunk and branches.

He gave a thumbs up, and the men on the bank began pulling the cable in, dragging the bush and the three clones through the water on a brutally punishing trip to the river's edge. As the bush came into the shallows and began getting caught up on the rocks, CT-2085-4 and CT-2080 waded out into the water along with a handful of others.

CT-4441, seeming no worse for the ordeal, turned to help Jesse, who was running only on adrenaline by this point. His shoulder and side were hurting badly now, or perhaps it was just that he felt it more, given that the immediate threat to his life had been removed. He was barely able to keep his feet, much less offer any help to his half-drowned squad mate. But there were plenty of others there to render assistance.

CT-4441 handed Jesse off to the remaining two squad mates, then he took 6116 under the arms.

"Little Brother! LB! Can you hear me? Are you conscious?!" he asked urgently.

CT-6116 nodded as he coughed up water.

"Come on, let's get out of this fekking river," 4441 said quietly, sounding as if he were on the verge of an emotional display of relief. He carefully got his squad mate upright and handed him out of the furze into the hands of CT-7567 and Double-Ones, where he lolled between them like a drunken man.

As Cadet Bead took the lieutenant's place carrying 6116, CT-7567 turned to CT-4441. "Cadet, are you injured?"

"No, Sir.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. We'll talk about your little adventure later. Right now, I want you to send someone back upstream, back to CT-3636. Tell him what's happened. Tell him he should still continue with the crossing, and ask him if he wants us to come back up that way or if he wants the rest of the platoon to come down here."

"Yes, Lieutenant. I'll send someone right away."

"And—do you have another medic?" CT-7567 asked, already knowing the answer. Standard practice was one medic per platoon, even though all clones were trained in field medicine.

"No, Sir, but . . . CT-1781 in Predator Squad, he's got a good feel for this stuff," 4441 replied. "I'll get him up here as soon as possible."

"Good man," CT-7567 nodded.

"Lieutenant!"

CT-7567 turned towards the sound of the voice. It was one of Quest Squad's troopers. He was pointing towards the southern sky.

"Oh no," the lieutenant breathed.

The clouds were starting to show circular motion.

There was no time to dither.

Any moment, CT-7567 was sure, the sky would fill with funnels.

The platoon was on the stretch of open, rocky ground between the river and the foothills, split into two locations, with injured men.

And nowhere to take cover.

* * *

 _ **Note: another bow to Rex's "I'm always first, kid."**_

 _ **And a reference back to CT-4441's (Top) penchant for calling CT-6116 (Kix) LB or Little Brother, much to Kix's irritation**_.

 ** _The commercial? If you've seen the talking raccoons commercial where the one eats the bad-tasting garbage, you'll know he says it tastes like "mango chutney and burnt hair." Loved it, so it has a little appearance here._**


	64. Chapter 63

_**Dear Reader, Thanks to The Unnamed Guest and AtinBralor for your reviews! There's some syrup in this chapter, but my aim is to better define Saber Squad and the connection Rex develops with them. Note: Hutte (from the German) = hut. Not the Jabba kind. Peace, CS**_

Chapter 63 Regrouping and Brothers

" _Success if not final. Failure is not fatal. It is the courage to continue that counts. Success is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm."_

Winston Churchill

* * *

The next ten minutes showed just how useful regimentation and uniformity could be. Without hesitation or question, CT-7567 confidently handed off organization of the platoon to CT-4441, whom he was coming to recognize as a leader in his own right, respected and admired by his batchers, so overflowing with confidence that 7567 could imagine he was looking at himself.

And while CT-4441 sent men upstream to ascertain the commander's wishes and bring back the second most medically inclined trooper—though far distant behind 6116—while he appointed men to round up the gaggles on both sides of the river, that left CT-7567 to attend to the critical matter of getting them off the plateau before more trouble could befall them.

And to do that, he sought out the counsel of two other cadets who were also making a positive impression on him. The first was Double-Ones, who was already pouring over the map, looking for shelter and the fastest, easiest route to it. The second was Jesse; and here there was no shortage of esteem on the lieutenant's part for the cadet's determination to rebound from his spat in the river. CT-5579 seemed to understand that time was against them now, with the clouds racing towards northward. He tolerated CT-2085-4's attention, insisting that he only needed to catch his breath, that the pain from his injuries was—as he put it—"noise level." When CT-7567 approached him with Double-Ones, he got to his feet and no one insisted he sit back down. It was a show of resolve, and they were all going to need a lot of it in the coming hours.

"How much time do you think we have before that storm catches up with us?" 7567 asked the two men.

"Not an hour," Jesse replied. "We lost a lot of time in the river."

"I concur," Double-Ones nodded. "We have to get moving as soon as possible. If we get caught up here with injured men, that would be a disaster."

"If we get caught up here with _healthy_ men, that would be a disaster," CT-7567 corrected. "None of us would stand a chance against the tornadoes." A pause. "Is it likely those funnels would be able to pass into the mountains? They need flat ground, don't they?"

"Normally, I would say that's the case, Sir," Jesse replied. He held out his hand to Double-Ones. "Let me see your binoculars." He scanned the northern and eastern foothills. "I can't see very far up due to the clouds, but it does look like the tree lines are intact. If these twisters are normal occurrences and they reach the foothills, you'd think the trees would be all torn up."

"Good point," 7567 agreed. "Does the map show _anything_ on the eastern side where we can take cover?"

"No, Sir. But that doesn't signify. The caves we stayed in yesterday weren't on the map," Double-Ones answered.

"The main thing is to get off this plateau, and the eastern foothills are closer than the northern ones," CT-7567 stated. "The terrain looks bad either way, but there's less of it going east. If the funnels can't follow us into the foothills, then we won't necessarily need any firm shelter – just something where we can get a good look at our wounded." With these last words, he glanced over to where CT-6116 was sitting on the ground, elbows on his knees, looking drawn and somewhat dazed; but at least he was upright and under his own power. Beside him, CT-2080 was patting him lightly on the back, either for comfort or with the purpose of bringing up more water; and although the lieutenant could not hear what 2080 was saying, apparently it was humorous enough to coax an occasional gurgling laugh from the medic. CT-7567 went on, "He looks okay now—you look pretty shabby, Jesse—he looks okay now, but I'd like to get someplace where we can do a proper examination. And the commander is going to need looking at, as well. Kripes, I hope he didn't try to get up and follow us down the river."

"Well, if he did, 6116 will have something to say about it," CT-2085-4 grinned, then he added with an almost apologetic lilt to his voice. "Jesse, there's blood starting to come through back here." He was referring to the back of Jesse's shoulder. "There's a huge hole in your jacket, and I can see blood now."

"Do something to bandage it up and cover it before 6116 sees," Jesse instructed. "I don't need him worrying about me when he's still coughing up half the river."

"I think it's where the cable got you," 2085-4 remarked, reaching into his pack for his own meager single roll of bandaging.

"Probably," Jesse said, then returned to the subject at hand. "I agree with you, Lieutenant. It's a shorter distance to the eastern foothills, and I think it's worth taking the chance that the funnels can't follow us in there."

CT-7567 gave a single nod. "We have to regroup. Getting off this plateau will give us the chance to do that."

"Look, here comes 1781," 2085-4 said.

"Have him take a look at Jesse and 6116. He should probably take a look at 4441, as well," 7567 stated.

"Lieutenant . . . what if the commander wants to go north?" Jesse asked.

"CT-3636 is smarter than the lot of us combined," 7567 replied. "I think once he gets briefed on the situation, he'll agree with our course of action."

* * *

CT-7567's intuition was correct, for CT-3636 had already come to the same conclusion based on observation of the weather. Upon being briefed on the injuries to CT-6116 and Jesse, he confirmed that heading east was their best bet to get to safety. The fact that both men were mobile was a fortuitous circumstance; and after all the hubbub on the riverbank, he felt that he himself could use a few hours of respite out of the danger zone.

The platoon moved east, keeping along the course of the river flume. Less than two kilometers stood between them and the foothills, but it was two kilometers of rough terrain. The storm broke upon them while they were still half a kilometer out, but so far it was only rain and wind. No funnels. Not yet.

The engines of nature could be heard far above them, churning and driving the air in a circular motion. It would not be long before those engines sent tornadoes spinning down upon the plateau.

CT-7567 kept a close eye on the ground, looking for deep fissures into which they could jump for cover at a moment's notice. Most of the cracks in the ground were filled with water or mud; and there was nothing to guarantee that the suction of one of the twisters would not be strong enough to lift them right up out of such scant protection.

So busy was he, looking for safe haven, that he was stunned when he found himself at the base of the foothills. The rocky alien landscape of the plateau gave way to a scatter of spindly trees and squat scrub bushes. The ground grew more yielding as stone gave way to gravelly dirt and then a mixture of mud and leafy decay.

The river, running on their right, came plunging and plummeting in cascades from the top of the mountain, still obscured by cloud and now by the trees into which the platoon was moving. In short order, they had entered a forest where an old, overgrown pathway was still barely visible in the underbrush.

Behind them, they heard the first roars of the funnels.

"Just in time," CT-7567 remarked to 3636, still being carried on his litter.

"Right," the commander concurred. "Now maybe we can find a place to take a rest. Send a squad to scout ahead."

"I'm on it, Commander."

* * *

"They're coming up on the stone huttes," Sergeant Major Clicks stated, looking at the satellite read. "That's good. I think they need a break. It's a miracle they haven't lost anyone yet."

"That's a rather dramatic thing to say, isn't it, Sergeant Major?"

"No, Captain, it isn't," Clicks dissented. "This is one of the hardest courses we've ever introduced, and I'm not much liking how this first run is turning out."

"Are they training to be ARC troopers or flower arrangers?"

"Just giving my opinion, Sir."

CT-4901, otherwise known as Captain Skidz, zoomed the imaging. "They're holding together well enough." A pause. "It's good preparation for E&E."

Captain Skidz was the officer who oversaw the Escape and Evasion portion of the program. He ran E&E not only for the ARC school, but the lesser course that was part of Basic training, as well. And although any assignment to the ARC cadre was considered prestigious, this had not been his first choice. CT-4901 had wanted, more than anything else, a front-line combat unit assignment coming out of Basic. And, in fact, that was what he'd been given. The 9014th Insertion Squadron was a highly renowned special operating unit. It was his first unit of assignment, but he had gone there not as a combatant but as a staff officer. Instead of leading men into battle, he had been placed in charge of the squadron's logistical operations, a situation that had rankled him from the very first, for he felt its injustice most squarely riding on his shoulders, weighing him down and taunting him every time he thought of where he might have taken his batchers, had not another officer in the pod beaten him to the assignment he'd truly wanted.

Ah, but things had worked out – to a degree. Somewhere along the way, a higher-ranking officer had noted the complete mismatch and misuse of CT-4901's skills. He had excelled in survival training, as well as enemy evasion; and so the question of what he was doing functioning as a logistics officer could not be answered to any logical conclusion. He was tapped to join the cadre at the ARC training school, and although still not a front-line combat unit, it did give him the chance to use his talents, impart his wisdom, and lead men in a sort of circuitous way. And when Basic training moved its E&E and survival modules to Mayotta, it made sense that they, too, would fall under his oversight for those particular training phases.

The introduction of this new program—the matching of ARC troopers with cadets for the survival portion—while it had not been 4901's idea, was met with his eager approval. He and his team of fifty men had gone out and determined the training grounds, run the courses themselves, and done the partial mapping that was meant to be just enough to send the trainees in the right direction but force them to use their own wits as opposed to the constant dependence upon computerized equipment.

While all the various courses were meant to be difficult, it was true that some posed greater threats than others – under particular circumstances. The Tinderhout scenario was no more dangerous than any of the others . . . unless it happened to be during a storm spell, in which case, it grew into a veritable maze of challenges.

What the cadre was witnessing now from the safety of their control center, via satellite read and a whole range of disguised drones, was that an extensive storm spell was passing over Tinderhout and would likely continue to do so for the duration of the exercise. That very fact, foreknown, had been the reason Sergeant Major Clicks had emphasized the dangers of the Tinderhout weather to his two ARC trainees.

"Well, they're off the plateau now," Captain Spicer remarked. He had been going between the control teams that were tracking each of his Echo Company trainees in their leadership roles. Somehow, he found himself spending more time watching CT-7567's platoon than the others. He was loathe to admit that it was because he expected something terrible—or at least, disheartening—to happen. "That should take some of the pressure off." A pause as he turned to Havoc Squad's advisor, Captain Scarlett. "I had imagined the commander and the lieutenant would have torn each other's head off by now."

"Yeah. They seem to be getting along a lot better than I expected," Scarlett agreed. "The commander doesn't have a whole lot of choice, does he?"

Spicer detected a note of concern in his voice. "You worried about him?"

"Well, the _Tite_ cam only showed us a glimpse of that leg before they got it wrapped up," Scarlett stated. A _Tite_ was a Myottan fly; and in this case, a camera-drone made to look like a Myottan fly. "The wind up there has been so bad, the cam keeps getting blown around. How many have we lost already? Five or six? Those little buggers are expensive, too. The Eagle cams are better." He cleared his throat and returned to topic. "I'm sure CT-6116 was right, and the leg's not broken. But I'll feel better when we have him back here and in a bacta tank. I don't want him to be a wash-out. If he can heal enough over a two- or three-day period to stay the course, I'll be happy."

"These things seem to happen whenever CT-7567 is involved." This from Captain Skidz. "Excessive risk equals excessive injuries." A pause. "It was the same way in Basic training."

"You were in Basic with him?" Captain Spicer asked.

"We were in the same pod."

Ten batches of thirty men each comprised a pod of three hundred men. Captain Skidz had had plenty of experience with CT-7567. He simply had never spoken of it. The recollection of being bested by the man at every turn was not something he cared to bring to light and share with others.

But . . .

A small kernel of satisfaction germinated deep inside him.

Justice had a way of coming around.

* * *

CT-7567 stood in the corner of one of the stone huts—known as hutte—upon which the platoon had come less than a kilometer into the woods. They were rough things, some of them partly caved in, but they provided decent protection as the men tried to warm up, dry out, take in some sustenance, and get even a snatch of much needed rest.

"Amazing," he remarked to CT-4441, standing beside him. He was watching as CT-6116 tended to Jesse's injuries, having already checked on CT-3636, using the supplies from 1781's pack. "An hour ago, he almost drowned. Now, he's taking care of them as if nothing happened."

"He's always been like that," 4441 stated. "Always more worried about others than himself." A pause. "We're lucky to have him." There was a lengthier silence, and when 4441 spoke again, there was a somberness in his voice. "In fact, I don't know what we'd do without him."

CT-7567 was blunt. "We're all replaceable. The mission should never depend on one man."

"I'm not talking about the mission, Sir," CT-4441 replied.

And although the lieutenant knew precisely what the cadet was getting at, he felt, for some unaccountable reason, that he wanted to hear him explain it. He regarded CT-4441 with an expression that invited him to go on.

"Well . . . what about your own batchers, Sir? Your own squad mates? When you were a cadet, weren't they . . . like family to you? I hear you calling us brothers, so you must know what I mean if I say that we're _not_ replaceable. Someone else might be able to do our job, but as individuals, we can't be replaced," he said.

"I do understand."

CT-4441 continued. "I mean, in my own squad, I'm considered the muscle, you know? Jesse's the brains. He's one of the smartest men I know, but he doesn't make a big deal of it. CT-2085-4 keeps us grounded . . . common sense." A spark gleamed in his eye. "Even if he does have a fascination with blowing everything to kingdom come."

CT-7567 grinned. "What about CT-2080? He seems to be a bit of a loose cannon."

CT-4441 returned the grin with a chuckle. "Neh, he's just a hard case, always running up against brick walls and then blasting through them. We all joke that his growth tube had a leak, and he just rushes headlong into all kinds of osik. He's fearless, you know? The kind of guy who wouldn't think twice about throwing himself on a live grenade. A little crazy, maybe. It's a miracle he didn't jump in the river, too. The only thing that probably stopped him was your order, Sir."

"Yes, well that didn't stop you," CT-7567 pointed out.

"I didn't jump in, Sir," 4441 deferred. "I fell off the cable."

"My ass, you did." 7567 pinned him with an admonishing stare. "You let go and went after them."

"Well . . . Jesse probably could have pulled himself out of there, but—but I had to save Little Brother," 4441 said. "I told you where we all fit in as squad mates, but LB—he's . . . he's sort of the glue that holds us all together. I guess he's . . . eh, it sounds fluffy, but he's the heart of this squad. He pumps out energy to the rest of us. I don't really know how to explain it." He drew in a deep, thoughtful breath. "The four of us—me, Jesse, 2085-4 and 2080—we're killing machines. And we're damned proud of it. That's why we can't wait to get to the front. Don't mistake me: LB is just as brutal about wanting to kill the enemy as we are; but he might be the only clone I know, medic or otherwise, who _really_ cares more about saving lives than taking them. He reels us back in when we get carried away, which is often." He shook his head. "For _us_ , he's a perfect fit. But . . . he gets himself in trouble a lot because he doesn't . . . he doesn't fit in with the rest of the mold."

"What do you mean?"

CT-4441 seemed to struggle to find his words. "We're a . . . a manufactured product. When one of those products has a defect, the standard procedure is to discard that product. If a clone like Ninety-Nine were to be created today, he wouldn't be allowed to continue existing. He'd be aborted as soon as the defect was noticed. The Kaminoans can't afford, nor do they have any use for, substandard, defective products. If a clone gets injured in training, and it's not something that can be fixed by a few days in the bacta tank, he's sent to reconditioning. We all know what that is. It's termination. It's not a pretty part of life as a clone, but it's the way things are. Little Brother has a . . . a tendency to speak out against that reality." He exhaled heavily, as if exerting a great deal of energy. "That, in itself, is looked upon by the Kaminoans as a defect. Too much sensitivity. They've wanted to, uh, to do everything short of recondition him to eliminate the tendency. General Shaak-Ti and our training advisor, Dunnam'Kah, have kept the Kaminoans at bay. If we can just get LB to keep his opinions to himself for three more months, then we'll be going to the front lines, and then he can say whatever he wants."

"He's pretty outspoken. Do you think he can do that?"

"We can only hope," CT-4441 replied.

* * *

"Can you move it okay?"

"Yeah, but it hurts like hell."

"Well, my hypos are all gone—thanks to you—but I'll see what I can do about the pain."

Jesse managed a smirk. "I decided a live medic was more important the medic's supplies."

"I know," CT-6116 replied, adding earnestly, "And I haven't had a chance to say thank you yet. " A pause. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Jesse accepted. "Though we both really owe our lives to 4441. He jumped in and got us both to safety."

"I'll thank him when I'm done here. Besides, he's with the lieutenant right now," 6116 stated.

"They seem to be an awful lot alike," Jesse observed, then asked, "Does 1781 have any hypos in his kit?"

"You know he doesn't, Jesse," came the answer. "Only qualified platoon medics can carry the good stuff. But . . . this does have to be cleaned and sterilized. I can gin up something that will not only do that, but numb the area as well – for a few hours at least." From Jesse's own pack, he dug out one of a handful of vacuum-sealed metal-lu squares, each of which contained a water purification tablet. "CT-1781, do you still have any proplyinol rinse?"

CT-1781, who was making the rounds, performing a cursory check on the health of the rest of the platoon members—per 6116's instruction—fished out a container from his pack and brought it over.

"Hang around and I'll teach you a few tricks," 6116 said. He crushed the purification tablet and mixed it with two parts water and one part proplyinol. "You can use this to irrigate and clean out a wound when you don't have Sterisol. Plus, the proplyinol can help numb an area when you don't have or can't risk using a painkiller." To Jesse, "It's going to be a little cold."

For the next five minutes, CT-1781 watched as CT-6116 tended to the injury; and then 6116 oversaw 1781 as the latter carried out the bandaging of the wound.

"Good job," the medic complimented him. "Now, as long as _you_ and _your_ pack don't go falling into any rivers, we should be okay."

"I'll do my best," 1781 said with a grin. "Do you need me anymore?"

"No, go get some rest. The way things are going, I think we're both going to be in demand over the next two days," 6116 told him.

Once 1781 had left to join his own squad mates around one of the heaters, Jesse spoke up. "I think you'd do well to take your own advice. You should get some rest, too."

"I'm okay," 6116 assured him.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. 1781 already checked me over," 6116 replied. "I'm just tired . . . and a bit waterlogged. When I'm done here with you, I'll get some shut-eye. I think it will do me good."

Jesse nodded. "How's the commander?"

"All things considered, he's holding up well. I'd feel better if they'd evac him out of here, but—"

"That issue's already been laid to rest," Jesse reminded him.

"That's what I was going to say." CT-6116 leaned back on his heels. "I just hope we can get through the rest of this thing without any more injuries."

Jesse regarded the medic with knowing eyes. CT-6116 was more than tired. He was exhausted. Now that things had slowed down for the time-being, his ordeal in the river was starting to catch up with him. And Jesse knew him well enough to recognize that, even though 6116 had said he was going to get some rest, he would probably not be able to resist the urge to go conduct his own rounds of the troops, even though CT-1781 had just done that very thing.

No, if CT-6116 was going to get any rest, Jesse was going to have to goad, guilt, and threaten him into it.

" _But that's what brothers do."_ Jesse smiled to himself . . .

. . . smiled at the realization that he had used the term _brother_.


	65. Chapter 64

_**Dear Reader, Thank you to my reviewers, LLTC, Ms CT-782, The Unnamed Guest, AtinBralor, and Freedom Phantom. So, this chapter goes out to LLTC, who is a big Wolffe fan. As I've pointed out, this chapter was originally written with Cody and Rex teamed up, but I changed it to add some contention - besides, Cody and Rex have a couple big chapters coming up. It's got a somewhat "Lord of the Rings" vibe to it. And the opening quote is another Richard Adams' favorite - and I think it's very fitting for the chapter. Enjoy! CS**_

Chapter 64 Into the Mountains and the Stone Wolf

" _For that's how the Iron Wolf comes, you know, sir – just when you're altogether desperate and can't tell whether your dreaming or waking or whatever you're going to do at all. Some say he's never very far off, but that those who see him can do so only at such a time as that. I never heard but the one man that tried to say what he was like. 'He's made all of a thick, dark smoke,' he said. 'You'd think it was off the bonfire that burns the damned, and nothing alight in it but just the eyes.'"_

 _The Iron Wolf  
_ A Traditional Lithuanian Legend, as written by Richard Adams in The Unbroken Web

* * *

"We need to cover more distance before the sun sets," CT-3636 stated. "We're not even halfway. We've got at least six more hours of sunlight. We need to make use of it."

"If we want to get back on course, we'll have to go back to the plateau," CT-7567 pointed out. "We only went east to get away from the tornadoes. There's no passage through these mountains to the end point."

The two of them were huddled around a heat generator, looking over the map with Double-Ones, CT-5579 and CT-4441.

"It sounds like the funnels are still out there," Double-Ones noted.

"We'll have to wait until they die down," 3636 said. "If we keep close to the foothills, we can always take cover in a valley like this one if we need to. It should only be a kilometer or so between here and the route we were taking. We can't risk going back across the plateau. Following the line of the foothills is the best option."

"I agree," CT-7567 nodded. "We've been resting here for a little over two hours. The men should be ready to go. If we get back on our original route, we should still have the caves to the north. We can overnight there."

And so it was decided.

Retracing their steps back to the plateau, they stood just within the wood's edge, watching the funnels tearing across the open space before them. Over the next twenty minutes, the funnels began to thin out; but even then, a handful lingered in their roaming.

"It's almost like they're alive, daring us to come out," CT-4441 quipped.

"Then I say, let's take them up on that dare," came the reply from CT-2080.

CT-4441 gave a sardonic smile. "Yeah, like I told the lieutenant . . . you're crazy."

"Hey, I can't be offended by the truth," 2080 rejoined.

Several steps away, CT-7567 helped CT-3636 to his feet. They both surveyed the scene.

"What do you think?" 7567 asked. "The funnels don't seem to come near the foothills."

"Not that we've _seen_ ," 3636 emphasized. "They may be close now, but we don't know that they'll stay that way. We have to keep tight along the edge. From here, it looks like there are plenty of crevices and openings we could retreat into if they do shift this direction." A pause. "My suggestion is that we send a couple men on ahead in fifty meter intervals to check for safe areas. Then we bring the rest of the body up, and send the scouts out again for the next fifty meters."

CT-7567 nodded, then with a grin, "I'd like to thank the tactician in you. That's a good idea."

"Don't try to flatter me, Lieutenant," 3636 warned with only a hint of humor. "We're not in good shape here, and we both may end up failing this thing if we don't come up with some good ideas about how to make up on lost time."

"I wouldn't dream of flattering you," 7567 replied. "I just like to be optimistic." He helped the commander back down onto his litter. "I'll pick two men to send ahead." He already knew his selections before he'd even turned to summon them. "2085-4, Hardcase, front and center!"

CT-2085-4 came forward instantly.

No one else moved.

"You, Hardcase, get up here! What are you waiting for?"

CT-2080 could see the lieutenant was looking at him, yet he turned to make sure there was no one else he might be speaking to. One thing he knew for certain was that none of his batchers went by the name Hardcase.

CT-4441 tapped him on the shoulder. "He means you."

"What? When did I—" CT-2080 began in a low voice, but as CT-4441 nudged him forward, he straightened up, stepped forward, and reported with conviction and perhaps even a bit of pride, "Hardcase, reporting as ordered, Sir."

"Good. The three of us are going to scout ahead along the base of the foothills. We'll go fifty meters at a time and keep an eye out for places we can take cover if those funnels start heading this way. The rest of the platoon will proceed when we call them up. Then we'll scout the next fifty. Understood?"

"Understood, Lieutenant," both men replied.

CT-7567 gave a nod to indicate the meeting was over, and the two men went back to their squad mates. He then turned to CT-3636, who was looking up at him expectantly.

"We'll get underway immediately," 7567 announced, hunkering down beside him.

"We?" CT-3636 questioned, and his meaning was clear.

"Well, yes," 7567 replied. "I think it's best if I go with them."

"I'm not sure I agree with that," 3636 said. "But we don't have time to argue about it." A pause. "Hardcase?"

CT-7567 grinned. "Oh. An idea I got from one of his squad mates."

"As if there's any value in giving us names," 3636 scoffed.

"You go on thinking that, Commander."

* * *

"Hardcase? Where the hell did he get the idea to call me that?" CT-2080 was glaring pointedly at CT-5579.

"Don't look at me," Jesse replied. "I didn't say anything to him." He chuckled. "But you have to admit, it is fitting."

CT-2080 turned his attention to his other squad mates. "CT-6116? 2085-4, it better not have been you after all the—" Then he noticed it. CT-4441 standing smugly, arms crossed, a simper playing across his face. "You?"

"I told him you were a hard case," 4441 beamed with amusement. "I didn't know he'd decide to start calling you that." A pause. "But I like it. And Jesse's right. It's perfect for you. Look at all the osik you've stirred up since we were batch-kits. You go out looking for trouble and then pretend to be surprised when it finds you, when all you really want is to mix things up with whoever will accommodate you."

As CT-4441 had spoken, a grin had begun to form on CT-2080's face, and now it spread from ear-to-ear. "I like the sound of all that. Okay, then, Hardcase, it is."

* * *

The platoon made good progress along the base of the foothills. There were several times when the funnels whirled close, but there was never really any danger. The funnels preferred the relatively flat ground of the plateau; and even if they had approached the foothills, the scout team always had a good safe spot into which the platoon could retreat.

For CT-7567, the exercise—though perilous up to this point, with the result being two injured men—had taken on a competitive quality. He wondered how Cody was doing with his platoon. Or more accurately, he wondered if the commander was having more success than he was. Was Cody's platoon encountering the same degree of difficulty? The same trials? What were his cadets like and how did they compare with these cadets?

" _We have to finish this – on time and with all our men,"_ he said to himself as he waited with Hardcase and CT-2085-4 for the rest of the platoon to join them on what was their last leg of the journey along the foothills, the last stretch before reentering the mountains, this time to the north. _"We can't lose any more time. If we take one more break overnight, we can press on for the next two days non-stop. These lads can do it. We're engineered for it, and these boys are as competitive as I am. Well . . . maybe the medic might object, but even he wants to be the best – just like the rest of them."_ He looked to his right, where the newly _minted_ Hardcase was lining up his sights on non-existent targets out on the plateau.

"Are you planning to shoot at the thin air?" he asked.

"No, Sir," came the game reply. "I just like the feel of firepower in my hands."

At this, CT-2085-4 shook his head with a derisive laugh. "You're lucky they haven't sent you back to the scrap heap. I've never met anyone so anxious to start shooting . . . Hardcase."

"Ha! Who are you talking about?" Hardcase challenged. "You're worse than I am! I just want to shoot the enemy. You want to blow everything up – and when I say everything, I mean everything! You just like to see things explode."

CT-7567 turned to regard 2085-4. "Is that true?"

"Well, I _am_ training to be demolitions specialist, Sir," came the reply, perhaps somewhat sheepish but definitely not accompanied by any shame. "So, uh, I guess I do like to play around with explosives."

"That's a dangerous job," 7567 pointed out. "I take it you're also training to remove EOD."*

"I finish the advance course one week before we graduate," came the proud reply. "I have a one hundred percent accuracy rate."

"He's first in his class," Hardcase added, joining in his squad mate's pride.

"That's a great accomplishment," 7567 stated approvingly. "That's a career field where one wrong move, one mistake can cost a lot of lives."

"That's why he's so well-suited for it," Hardcase nodded. "Hands as steady as a surgeon's. And nerves, to match." He turned his attention away from his invisible targets and regarded 2085-4 with a definite affection. "A bit too much seriousness for my tastes."

"An EOD specialist has to be serious," 2085-4 replied. "Like the lieutenant said: one wrong move—"

"One day I'm going to get you to lighten up," Hardcase interrupted.

CT-7567 listened to them banter back and forth; and then a strange emptiness flashed through his consciousness. It took him only a moment to realize what it was. Seeing these batchers, these squad mates, not even Shinies yet, filled with the pre-war giddiness of men for whom battle was still only a text-book scenario, he suddenly felt a longing for his own batchers, his own brothers.

It had only been three weeks since he had left the front, and already he missed them, wondered how they were doing, wondered if he had lost any since his departure. In his dreams, he had come to ARC training fully prepared to land a position in the 501st – or to at least distinguish himself enough to be considered a candidate for the vaunted legion. But he'd also carried, in the back of his mind, the tacit knowledge that to take such a position would mean leaving his batchers. In fact, accepting enrollment in ARC training entailed the possibility that a trainee might not be returning to his original unit. ARCs were doled out where needed.

CT-7567 had known that there was a better than 50-50 chance he would not be returning to the 729th. That thought hadn't really troubled him until now. But seeing the brotherhood, an almost-familial closeness between these cadets—especially among those in Saber Squad—he was put in mind of his own brothers and what life would be like without them.

But as quickly as the thought arose, it blew away like the rubble carried in the funnels.

" _You can't afford to care."_

It was a callous thought but one that worked well enough. But only in a certain sense. For while it might force down the emotion or sentimental investment he had in his men, it could not remove the dreaded weaknesses associated with those emotions and sentiments. Still, at least he had the insight to recognize his shortcomings and do everything he could to keep them at bay.

He had mastered the role of the lighthearted super soldier: the officer who could laugh and smile away even the most disastrous circumstances, react to the death of men around him as an unfortunate afterthought of conflict, and still rally the men while dismissing his own grief as something that no one else should ever see or even suspect.

That was what he'd been taught: do your job and don't let emotions get in the way.

Damn, they'd all been taught that!

So, why did he seem to have more trouble carrying out that maxim than his brothers? They could feel, get it out, let it go, and move on.

CT-7567 could feel—too much, he often mused—but that was where it ended. Instead of embracing and working out those feelings, he preferred to simply keep them inside and forged ahead, dragging a train of unspoken, unrevealed reckonings that he could no more discard than he could engage. Yes, he could move on, but the load he carried always threatened to drag him backwards.

How he had come to that point he had no idea. None of his brothers were like that _. Not a single one of them!_ He was certain that, of the millions of units being produced, he was the only one who had an overabundance of sentimentality, an encompassing attachment that was not only undesirable but dangerous. So dangerous that he could not permit it any place in his life.

And now, all he had to do was think, _"You can't afford to care,"_ and the well-conditioned response chased all troubling thoughts right out of his mind.

"Here they come, Sir." It was CT-2085-4, noting the approach of the rest of the platoon. "Do you want us to start checking out the last bit?"

The truth was he didn't want them to go without him, but a show of trust was in order after the good job they'd done thus far. "Go on. I'll come up with the rest of them this time."

"Roger that, Sir," Hardcase replied. Then to 2085-4, "Let's go, Brother. And try to keep up."

* * *

They arrived at the caves an hour after sunset.

In fact, it was only one cave. It reached into the hillside roughly twenty meters, and at its widest it was no more than ten meters across with a fairly high ceiling. The ground inside was well-trampled for a place that was supposed to be sparsely visited. Blackened circles on the ground were testimony of the cave's previous visitors, and there were actually piles of chopped wood lined up against the rear wall.

Jesse got the troops to build a couple fires, deciding it was better to save the thermal heaters for any future emergencies. In the meantime, CT-7567 and CT-3636 conferred.

"If we want to pass this test, we need to set out before sunrise and keep going non-stop for the next two days. A five-minute rest here and there wouldn't put us too much more behind schedule, but we've got to make up all the time we've lost," CT-3636 stated.

CT-7567 was speechless for a moment. This was the exact same conclusion he had come to; but while he'd imagined he would have to fight to get his point to win the day, he now saw that both he and the commander were on the same page.

"Normally, since this is a training environment, I'd say it's not that important," he admitted. "But after what we've been through, this is a matter of pride now. They probably don't expect us to make it." A pause. "Do you think they knew how dangerous this was before they sent us out here?"

"I'm sure they did. But they sent us out here anyway, so there must be some tricks, some shortcuts or other options that we're not thinking of. We've been doing everything by the book, making all the reasonable decisions. Maybe it's time to toss reason aside," 3636 stated. A pause. "You think the men can handle two days non-stop?"

"I know they can."

"Then set the watch and tell them to get a good night's sleep. We'll get them up around 0300 and get underway. Get Jesse and Double-Ones over here. I want to get a good look at that map." A determined, almost devious expression swept across his face. "And I think it's time we started relying a bit more on our instincts than on what appears to be logical."

* * *

The following day, CT-7567 learned just what it meant to trust CT-3636's instincts.

The first thing he noticed was that CT-3636 had no need of a chronometer, an alarm, or anything else to tell him what time it was. His internal, circadian clock seemed to have already adjusted to the rotation of Myotta, and he was up at 0245 without any assistance to rouse him.

CT-7567 found himself genuinely awed by the commander's almost animalistic sense of stealth and caution, moving a group of thirty men through the forest on the gradual slope up the valley path. It seemed that the rough-and-tumble of the plains and the river had awakened in the commander an awareness of the need to move quietly and quickly through the thickening trees.

Several times throughout the day, a number of the cadets reported seeing a flash, a glimpse from the corners of their eyes, of a figure or a shadow moving through the woods. None of them could get a long enough look to give any decent description, but their alertness increased as they continued on.

By late afternoon, the platoon had left the dense forest of the lower altitudes and was now moving into the more sparsely wooded middle range. Behind and below them, through breaks in the thinning trees, they could see the grand and stunning vista of the plateau laid out below them. At the moment, all was quiet. The clouds moved across the area in billowy bands, but there were no twisters. The temperature dropped, the higher they went.

Double-Ones opined that there might be snow at the highest levels. Indeed, peering through the binoculars, there were white patches that could easily be snow – or the sediment of a landslide. It was impossible to tell from this distance.

It was also becoming clear that the path they were on was growing less and less discernible as they moved towards the top of the treeline.

"Double-Ones, Jesse, where does the map show the path going once we leave the woods?" 7567 asked, trudging along just ahead of 3636's litter.

Double-Ones and Jesse came and walked beside him, map open.

"It makes a marked turn to the west," Double-Ones pointed out. "Then here it shows up as dashes. I'm not sure what that means."

"It probably means that it's barely a trail at all by that point," Jesse stated. "I think once we come out of the woods, we're going to have to rely on the map, our Compass, and the Mylar Pro." He pursed his lips in a wry grin. "After all, that's what this exercise was supposed to be all about: land navigation without the aid of a computer." A chuckle. "I think it turned into a little more than that."

"It's a survival course," Double-Ones agreed.

"A chance to prove what you're made of," 7567 pointed out. "Well, let's get above the trees and see the lay of the land."

CT-3636 did not say anything during the brief meeting. CT-7567 glance at him and noticed an intense, concentrated look on his face.

"Are you alright, Commander?" he asked.

In a guarded voice, he answered, "It feels like something is following us, watching us."

CT-7567 was mildly surprised by this somewhat mystical, amorphous response; but then he had already found much about the commander that did not fit his impression of him. "The cadre?" he inquired.

"I'm sure they _are_ watching, but that's not what I'm sensing," came the wary reply.

"Should I send a patrol out to take a look?" CT-7567 asked.

"No . . . no. But tell the men to keep an eye open. I don't what it is, but something _is_ following us."

"Understood."

The message was relayed, and the platoon resumed their trek.

* * *

It was twilight by the time they cleared the last of the trees.

And now, as expected, the path was completely gone.

"It's going to be tricky going over this terrain in the dark with no clear idea where we're going other than a general westerly direction," Double-Ones commented to Jesse. "The men can alternate using their lumens. We've got to have enough left to light the way tomorrow night."

"I'll propose it to the commander and the lieutenant," Jesse replied. "And then, uh, I need another one of 6116's concoctions on this shoulder. It's starting to ache again."

"Speaking of 6116, how's he doing?" Double-Ones asked.

"Fine. I think he's fully recovered," Jesse replied. A smile. "Which is a good thing, because I need that homemade salve of his. I swear, he's got all sorts of those witch-doctor treatments he comes up with—"

"I'm sure they taught all that to him in ADMED*," Double-Ones poked. "Although, knowing 6116, I wouldn't be surprised if he has all kinds of lab experiments brewing in his sleeping tube."

"You and me both." Jesse then went and addressed CT-7567 and CT-3636 together. "We probably have another thirty minutes before it gets dark, maybe a little longer," he announced. "Once it gets dark, our progress will slow down. The terrain up here isn't as hostile as on the plateau, but it's still tricky. And we won't be able to see more than a few meters in front of us."

"We can do what we did on the plateau," CT-7567 suggested. "Send out a scout party first to find the easiest route. Actually, we can send out two or three and leap-frog it. By the time the rest of the platoon catches up, the next team will have already found the next route. Commander?"

"That sounds like a good idea," 3636 concurred, but it was clear that his attention was elsewhere; and now CT-7567 was starting to wonder if some manner of delirium or hallucination was settling in following his injuries. He decided he would direct 6116 to conduct another check of the commander's health before starting off again.

"Excuse me, Commander, Lieutenant." CT-9142, a Predator Squad clone, approached. "There's something over the rise that you might want to see." He took a few steps back and they followed him. "Me and some of the men noticed it as we were walking. We thought it was just cloud, but . . . it looks like steam or mist."

"You're right," CT-7567 nodded, looking at the wisp of steam rising up above the ridge. "Come with me. We're going to check it out. CT-4441! You're with us!"

"CT-7567!" This from the commander. "Keep an eye out. We're still being followed."

The lieutenant gave a dubious nod then headed off with his small detail. As they passed CT-6116, he leaned in and spoke in quiet voice, "Go check on him. I think he's starting to imagine things."

The top of the rise was just over a hundred meters away and not more than twenty meters vertical climb. They made it to the crest in less than two minutes.

And what they saw on the other side held them speechless for several seconds.

Before them stretched a landscape of hissing geysers and vents, rain-filled pools of thermal-heated water, sending their own wisps of steam into the air, and on the far side, nearly half a kilometer away, what was clearly the fiery red-orange of an active lava flow.

"Well, this explains the plateau we just crossed," CT-9142 stated. "It's an old lava flow."

"I think you're right," 7567 concurred. "Did any of this show up on the map?"

"I don't recall, Sir," 4441 replied. "We'll have to take a look when we get back down." A pause. "Are we going to try going through it?"

"I'm not sure we have a choice," CT-7567 frowned. "We'll see what our options are. Come on, let's go back."

Returning to the rest of the platoon, the lieutenant was relieved to see that CT-6116 had done as instructed and was with the commander.

"What did you find?" CT-3636 inquired immediately, and he sounded perfectly coherent.

"It appears we are on the side of a volcano," 7567 gave the plain and simple answer.

The others—6116, Jesse, and Double-Ones—stared at him in stunned silence for a moment. Then CT-3636 said, with more than a hint of exasperation, "Is there anything else they can throw at us?"

"I wouldn't want to ask," 7567 replied.

"Can we make it through?" the commander asked.

"From what we could see, I think the answer is yes," came the reply. "But I can't be sure. It was mostly steamers, but on the far side, there was an active lava flow."

"Maybe this is why there are hash marks on the map at this point," Double-Ones suggested. "It's not a clear path."

"Do we risk it in the dark?" 7567 asked.

"We're going to have to," 3636 replied. "We can take it slowly."

CT-4441 spoke up with the voice of optimism. "Well, with all the thermals up there, it's bound to be warmer than what we've been coming up through. Maybe we'll have a chance to warm up and dry out."

CT-6116 simpered. "If we don't end up getting burned to a crisp."

"That's the spirit, LB," 4441 teased.

CT-3636 was suddenly impatient. "Let's get moving, then. We have a few more minutes before it gets dark. Let's make the most of it."

They resumed their climb up the mountainside along the route taken by CT-7567 and his party; and as they descended the other side, they noted with caution the unpredictability of the geysers and steamers. It would not be difficult to keep a good distance from them, but the clones were wary, noting places to take cover in the event of any bursts of hot water or scalding steam.

Perhaps thirty meters into the area, a call went up from near the middle of the platoon.

"Medic! We need a medic here!"

CT-7567 turned to see one of Nocturne Squad's cadets collapsed to the ground and CT-6116 working his way back to him. As he watched, a second cadet dropped. Then a third.

"What the hell—"

CT-6116 had his medical scanner out. "It's—it's poisonous gas – coming from these vents."

They did not have respirators with them. They'd not imagined they'd be needed.

"Everyone, go back!" CT-3636 ordered. "Pick those men up and get them out of here!"

No sooner had they turned to begin their retreat than there appeared before them, on the rocks over which they had just come, a great wolf-like creature, nearly three-quarters the size of a man, covered in a pelt of magnificent grey and white fur, and with fangs so long, they protruded over the bottom lip.

Immediately, one of the cadets drew his weapon.

"No!" CT-3636 shouted. "Don't shoot!" A pause as every other cadet raised his weapon in anticipation of the order to fire. It was a well-honed reaction to any perceived threat. "I don't think they mean to hurt us."

CT-7567 looked down at CT-3636, who was forcing himself to his feet. He reached out an arm and helped him up. "They?"

"There's more than one," 3636 replied. As he spoke, at least two dozen more of the creatures emerged from their hiding places.

"How—how did you . . . " 7567 could not even finish the sentence.

"Everyone, lower your weapons," 3636 ordered.

"I don't think that's a good—"

"I'm pulling rank on you," 3636 cut him off. "Screw the rules. Right now, you're a lieutenant, and I'm a commander. I need you to back me up on this one."

CT-7567 slowly reholstered his weapons, a sign for the others to stand down as well. "What is it?" he said in a near-whisper. "Some kind of wolf?"

"I'm not sure," 3636 replied. "Looks like one." A pause. "He looks like he's been through a few battles of his own."

The creature appeared aged and battle-worn. Half of one ear was missing and the other was torn and tattered. A jagged scar ran over across one whitened eye. The thick coat was more white than grey. Yet there was no question but that he was leader of the pack.

CT-3636 could not account for it, but he felt that he was looking at wisdom and patience. After all, the animals had been following the platoon for several hours, remaining concealed, not acting aggressively. Just . . . observing. If they were hostile, why had they not attacked?

"What do you want to do?" 7567 asked, seeing that the wolves were not showing any indication of departing.

"Just wait a minute," 3636 replied evenly. "I want to see what _they_ do."

CT-7567 was truly at a loss. This was not the sort of thing with which he was familiar. Among the ARC trainees, CT-3636 had seemed to be a straightforward, unambiguous officer – nothing mysterious about him. But this was incredible—baffling, no less. For all CT-7567 knew, it was almost Jedi-like. He could only surmise about that last bit, for in the 729th, he'd never worked alongside any Jedi. The 729th was under the command of both a clone officer and a non-clone humanoid, but no Jedi; and so what CT-7567 knew about Jedi was mostly from hearsay. To own the truth, General Shaak-Ti was the only Jedi with whom he'd had any experience worth mentioning.

But CT-3636 had spent months working alongside one of the most renowned and respected of all the Jedi: General Plo Koon, a Jedi known for his empathy and almost telepathic sensitivity. Could it be—was it even conceivable that CT-3636 had imbibed some small part of those praiseworthy traits. Was it possible? Did clone officers take on the characteristics of their Jedi commanders? Even their skills?

"We can't wait much longer." This came from Jesse, who was close beside them. "More of our men are passing out. This gas could be deadly."

"Okay . . . " CT-3636 raised his voice. "Everyone move back past them, but go slow and don't do anything to provoke them." To CT-7567, "Help me walk. I don't want to be carried."

"Right," CT-7567 dragged the word out as a sign of his skepticism.

The wolves backed away as the platoon began to move past them, but their yellow eyes followed the clones' every move.

The pack leader did not move. He watched as CT-3636 and CT-7567 passed within a few meters of where he stood, then let loose with a long, mournful howl.

The hair on the back of 7567's neck stood on end. "They're going to attack any second."

"No, they're not," 3636 deferred. Then, as the wolf began heading towards a crevice in the mountainside, the commander ordered, "Follow him."

"What?"

"Follow him," 3636 repeated. "He wants us to follow him. He wants to show us something."

"This is crazy," CT-7567 said, refusing to take a step. "He's moving away. Just let him go."

"Look, he's waiting for us to follow him. Now go," CT-3636 commanded. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

"I'm not sure you do. I can get CT-6116 to certify you as unfit—"

"I'm perfectly fit, and you know it," the commander pushed back. "These creatures could have attacked us a hundred times over. They haven't. They want us to follow them."

"Why would they want us to follow them?"

"That's what we're going to find out."

"Look, Commander, you can barely walk. We're never going to be able—"

CT-3636 cut him off. "Then bring someone else to help you carry me, if you can't do it yourself. I'm sure between the three of us, we can make it."

" _Good grief,"_ 7567 said to himself, but a part of him wanted to see if the commander was right, what were these animals trying to communicate?

He summoned CT-2085-4, and together, the threesome followed the animal to the crevice, which, upon closer inspection, was actually an opening into the mountainside.

"It's a passageway," 2085-4 stated.

"He wants us to go this way," CT-3636 determined.

"Commander, this is where I have to protest," CT-7567 insisted. "He probably wants to lead us in there, trap us, and then they'll attack us."

"We have enough firepower to kill all of them—and easily," 3636 pointed out. "We have nothing to lose by seeing what's down this passageway. We know we can't go through up here, not with that poisonous gas." He turned to 2085-4. "Go tell the men to stand by. Absolutely no firing—"

"Belay that order," CT-7567 said forcefully. "Commander, I am not letting you go in there, not until some of us go in first to check it out. You're not mobile enough, in case we run into any trouble. I'm telling you to stay out here until we can make sure it's safe." He went on before 3636 could protest. "And if you argue with me, I _will_ call CT-6116 over here to declare you—"

"I'm not going to argue," CT-3636 preempted. "But don't _you_ do anything stupid. These creatures want to help us. Don't screw this up, Lieutenant."

With that, CT-7567 summoned CT-4441 and Hardcase. To 4441, he spoke in a hushed voice. "Keep an eye on the commander. I don't know why he's so trusting of these animals." Then to 2080, "You're with me and 2085-4."

They entered the passageway following the lead of the wolf. Hardcase turned on his lumen, and in the dim light, they could see that there were other passages branching off into the darkness. A hundred meters into the mountain, the walls began to exude a faint reddish light, like sun through a partly opaque filter. The cold of the tunnel gave way to a comfortable warmth.

"Fek and all, we must be passing close to a magma chamber," Hardcase said.

"There's still probably at least twenty-to-thirty meters of rock between us and any chamber," 2085-4 replied. "But I, uh, wouldn't want to stay down here any longer than absolutely necessary."

"Do you think this goes all the way through the mountain, Lieutenant?"

"It's possible," came the noncommittal answer.

"No gases so far," Hardcase noted. "And the dog hasn't tried to attack us yet."

CT-7567 grinned. "The dog? You'd better hope that _dog_ can't understand you. He looks a hell of a lot more ferocious than any dog I've ever seen." A pause. "Have any other wolves followed us?"

"Not that I've seen," CT-2085-4 replied. "They could be concealed, but I don't think the rest of the platoon would let them in behind us."

"Go back and tell the commander it's safe to come in, but the men should still keep their weapons at the ready," 7567 ordered Hardcase.

Over the next five minutes while waiting for the platoon, CT-7567 checked out his surroundings. The passageway was clearly a naturally occurring opening, the floor of which had been smoothed out, but the walls of which were still uneven and irregular. At some places it was little higher than his own head; at others, it stretched up into the darkness and out of sight. He placed his hand on the glowing stone. It was warm but not too hot to touch. And if he listened closely, he could a slow, low rumbling – almost a humming, which he imagined was the churning and inner workings of a clearly active volcano.

" _As long as it doesn't erupt while we're on it . . . or in it,"_ he thought wryly. His attention was then drawn by the sound of 2085-4's voice.

"Do you understand me?"

Turning, he saw the cadet down on one knee, looking the wolf in the eye from a distance of less than a meter.

"Cadet . . . don't get that close," he warned. "I want you to back away."

"Sir, I think . . . I think the commander's right. He doesn't want to hurt us."

"He's a wild animal," CT-7567 said. "He could turn on you in an instant. Keep your distance."

"Yes, Lieutenant." He got slowly, somewhat dejectedly, to his feet.

Shortly thereafter, the rest of the platoon began to arrive.

"Did the rest of the wolves follow you inside?" CT-7567 asked as CT-3636 came up between Double-Ones and Bead.

"No," he replied. "They all just disappeared back into the land."

"How are our men who passed out?"

"They're okay. 6116 took a look at them. They're all back on their feet . . . maybe feeling a little nauseous, but they're okay," the commander replied.

"You think it's safe to keep following him?" CT-7567 asked, already knowing the answer.

"I do. And given that we can't go overland, this seems to be our best choice."

"We don't even know where this is leading," the lieutenant stated. "This could still be a trap. Or worse. We're passing through a _volcano_."

CT-3636 surprised him with a wicked grin. "Well, isn't this something? I thought you were the dare-devil, afraid of nothing. An adventure like this should be right in your target zone."

CT-7567 recognized the challenge, and while his gut wanted to jump at the chance, his better sense told him that this was not a simple training scenario. This had the potential to be a genuinely dangerous situation. In fact, this entire exercise had been one mishap after another. If he thought about it, perhaps being underground in the belly of a volcanic mountain might be the safest environs of the journey so far.

"I'm all for adventure, but . . . we're trusting your instincts that this animal is somehow . . . trying to help us. Forgive me, Commander, but that's a bit . . . it's just doesn't make sense to me," he replied at last.

"You're free to go back . . . and take anyone with you who doubts what I'm doing," CT-3636 replied bluntly.

CT-7567 felt a pang somewhere deep inside. "I meant what I said about staying together. I may disagree with this course of action, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to split up the platoon."

"Then for once, try to trust someone other than yourself," 3636 said.

The fact that this was said in front of several of the cadets set the lieutenant back on his heels. He set his shoulders and instead of retreating, he did as he always did and rose to the occasion.

"I've trusted you so far. Whether or not I keep trusting you will depend on what happens from here on in."

"Fair enough," 3636 nodded. "And if I fek everything up, you can say you told me so."

* * *

*EOD – Explosive Ordnance Devise

*ADMED – Advanced Medical Training

 _ **And yes, a very Star Wars-ish mushy bow to connect Wolffe's unfortunate eye injury to the Wolf's eye injury. Maybe I have some George Lucas in me! I usually wouldn't do something so corny and blatant, but I kind of like the idea in this case!**_


	66. Chapter 65

_**Dear Reader, Thank you to my reviewers, CT-782, the Unnamed Guest, TaitanoRules, Freedom Phantom, and LLTC. This is a short chapter - a sort of interlude. Lots of these scenes are setting the stage for the stuff that is to come. The next chapter wraps up the Land Navigation exercise. I wish everyone a Joyful Christmas Season, per my own tradition. Peace! CS**_

Chapter 65 The Way of Trust

" _The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them."_

Ernest Hemingway

The passageway through which they were traveling turned out to be one of a labyrinth; and the deeper into the volcanic mountain the platoon moved, the more ill-at-ease CT-7567 grew. As far as he was concerned, he and his brothers might as well have been _vrek rats_ in a maze, being led on by a shaggy vrek rat exterminator that had somehow managed to mesmerize his fellow platoon leader.

CT-7567 proceeded, his face cast in a perpetual grimace. Was he the only one who did not trust this animal? Never mind if he were. At least, he, among the 32 men who comprised the platoon, had the sense to exercise some degree of caution. He very quietly ordered the members of Saber Squad to be on their guard, to keep their weapons charged and at the ready. In addition, he ordered Double-Ones to track their route so that it could be retraced, if necessary, in the event of an attack.

But after nearly eight hours of wandering underground, the lieutenant began to wonder if they were being led to nowhere. They went from more of the red-light-suffused passages to utter darkness requiring lumens and then back; from silence to the low, subtle rumbling to sound and motion stressors that made them fear the mountain itself might be about to explode.

And every step taken was one step further removed from the possibility of a quick exit.

This, more than anything else, rankled CT-7567.

He did not mind that CT-3636 had pulled rank on him. He didn't even mind that the commander had told him he could leave if that was what he wanted. Why, he could even live with the fact that the last handful of decisions had been made by the commander alone, without any discussion.

But what he was finding it harder to stomach was his own reticence as the wolf had taken them deeper and deeper into the mountain. The truth was they had no idea where they were going and no reason to think this detour would result in anything other than complete and utter failure – or worse.

And now, it was too late in the game for CT-7567 to suggest to CT-3636 that they'd made a mistake. Besides, even if following the wolf had been folly, turning back would negate the last eight hours – eight hours that they really had not been able to afford to lose.

" _Trust someone other than myself, that's what he told me,"_ CT-7567 grumbled inwardly. _"Hmph! This is why I trust myself more than anyone else. I never would have put us in this situation."_ He scowled, unseen, at CT-3636 up ahead of him, borne once again on his litter. The commander's show of strength and resolve had kept him on his feet for close to three hours, but now he was riding again. He might have gone a bit longer, except for the threats coming from CT-6116.

The lieutenant had been hoping the medic would carry out those threats and remove CT-3636 from his position of command; but apparently, getting the commander off his feet and onto the litter had been the sole purpose of 6116's attention.

This only added to CT-7567's surliness.

"Well, Lieutenant, I guess this explains the hash marks on the map." Double-Ones was beside him, and his voice, gratefully, redirected 7567's thoughts.

"Oh?"

"I think they represent these passages. Clearly, not all the tunnels are marked on the map, but it seems safe to assume that the one or two lines that _are_ marked are representative of the entire system," Double-Ones surmised.

"You may be right," 7567 agreed. "Does it show the path coming out anywhere?"

"It looks like it comes out here . . . and here," the cadet replied, shining his lumen on the map as the two men walked.

"That's no good. Those are almost clear back at the beginning of the foothills. We will have just gone the long way to get back almost to where we started from," CT-7567 frowned. "What has the compass been showing for our heading?"

"Nothing, Sir," came the reply. "Since we've been underground, it hasn't worked. The lava flows mess with the magnetic fields."

"Great. Flying blind," the lieutenant groused.

"Don't you mean tunneling blind, Sir?"

CT-7567 actually felt a tickle of humor at the back of his throat, and he was glad to see that his and CT-3636's charges were not moping and grumbling – even though he himself might be doing just that.

"I'll just be happy when we get back to some daylight," 7567 stated. "We've been down here for eight hours."

"So far, it beats what was on the surface. Rain, wind, tornadoes, flooded rivers, poisonous gas—"

As Double-Ones ran off the litany, CT-4441, who had been walking close by, interjected, "Don't do that! You're going to jinx us."

Double-Ones shook his head with a smile. "There you go again. I don't know how you ever got so superstitious. It's not like Kamino does much to inspire . . . creative thinking."

"That's because nothing can inspire you rejects from Nocturne Squad," CT-4441 snapped back with a game twinkle in his eye. "Not even a beautiful woman."

"That's it; try to change the subject," Double-Ones took the insult in stride. "You're just one strong wind away from being blown off to crazy land with that imagination of yours." A pause. "Luckily, for you, that flat top deflects the wind right off top of your flat head." It was a play on words, a fine stroke of wit; and even CT-4441 could not suppress a chuckle.

"That's pretty clever . . . even for you," he replied.

"Enh, that's because your squad got all the brawn and my squad got all the brains—"

"Oh, I _beg_ to differ. Jesse's smarter than all of us combined."

It was a statement definitively given, but it was what followed that impressed CT-7567. He fully expected that Double-Ones would have a clever comeback, an argument in favor of his own squad's apparently superior intelligence. But surprisingly, after a few seconds of silence, he replied earnestly, "You're right."

Listening to them, CT-7567 felt his irritation and moodiness lifting a bit; but still he remained vigilant. He could not risk letting his guard down; for while the men might not be worried about the path they were on and the creature leading them down that path, the lieutenant knew that it took only a split-second of inattention to allow disaster a crack into which to insert itself.

He stayed a few more seconds in the company of the two men, then moved ahead to walk alongside CT-3636's litter, where the commander was sitting upright—and looking none too good for it—intent on exerting his leadership role instead of being a mere passenger or bystander.

"You still sold on this idea?" the lieutenant asked quietly.

"I am," he replied. "And even if I wasn't, it wouldn't be worth turning back at this point."

"Well, I, uh, I have the lads keeping track of how we came," CT-7567 said. "Just in case we end up needing to go back."

At this, CT-3636 raised his eyes, his head slowly following – an expression of disgust or disappointment that was almost wolf-like in its intensity.

"We won't _end up needing to go back_ ," he said, repeating the lieutenant's words with pointed precision.

"Just keeping all our options open," 7567 persisted.

"All except the option that someone else just might know more than you do."

" _The bastard did it again."_

CT-7567 felt his ire begin to bubble. CT-3636 had called him out in front of the two stretcher-bearers, called him out in front of two cadets for whom both ARC hopefuls were supposed to be setting an example.

"With all due respect, Commander . . . a man who follows the lead of an animal might not know as much as the thinks he does," 7567 replied calmly. With that, he slackened his pace and fell back among the rest of the platoon under the pretense of checking their morale.

To think – he had honestly believed they had been getting along rather well since the commander had been injured. Now, he had come to a point where it seemed CT-3636 could do nothing but criticize and insult him. Even so, he tried to find some excuse, some way to expunge the commander of the guilt of his behavior.

" _He's probably starting to realize that we're so off-course, we'll never pass this thing. I wonder if this will get us kicked out . . . "_ He quickly corralled his thoughts and focused on the main subject. _"And he's got to be in a lot of pain. Plus, he can't walk . . . that probably makes him feel useless."_ CT-7567 wondered if he himself was just too . . . soft. After all, what man worth his treasure would absorb such disrespect and insultfrom another man? And in front of an audience? And yet, here he was, trying to find excuses for why the commander had spoken so derisively to him.

"Commander! Lieutenant! Look! Up ahead!" This was from CT-2085-4 who was walking a short distance ahead of them, once again taking up closer to the wolf-creature than CT-7567 would have liked.

CT-7567 trained his eyes up the passageway.

And there it was.

The unmistakable glint of daylight diffused through the hazy air inside the tunnel.

"We must be coming to the end." This from a Predator Squad clone beside whom the lieutenant was walking.

"It sure looks that way," 7567 nodded his agreement. He moved to the front of the gaggle, past the commander, past 2085-4, and even past the wolf. He followed the passageway for another hundred yards as it made a slow, sweeping right turn, the light growing stronger with every step.

And then he emerged into daylight. He shielded his eyes for several seconds then surveyed the scene.

He stood on the lower half of a mountain, just above the tree line. Below him, a vast forest stretched away as far as he could see. The morning light brought a foggy haze rising up among the trees, and reaching up from within that haze was their final objective – a stepped tower of rough hewn stone, a monument to whatever civilization had once inhabited these parts.

CT-7567 estimated a distance of no more than twenty kilometers between himself and the objective. They could cover that in a day.

A strange dichotomy began swirling within him.

Clearly, the platoon would now certainly pass the test – so long as no more ill luck befell them. Not only would they pass, but with time to spare, nearly a full day. And considering all they had been through, that was miraculous in and of itself.

On the other hand, he was facing the commander's vindication.

CT-3636 had been right. His instincts had been proven accurate. The decision to follow the wolf had shown some form of prescience that CT-7567 had discounted, and now he was already firming up his defenses against what he was sure was going to be the commander's "I told you so" dressing down.

"We made it."

CT-7567 turned to see CT-2085-4 joining him.

"Yes, we did."

"This is incredible," the cadet enthused warmly. "The commander was right."

"It appears so," 7567 conceded.

"That's the objective, there," 2085-4 went on. "We'll be there by sundown."

"I think you're right." The lieutenant couldn't muster the enthusiasm he should have felt, and this bothered him in no small way. Was he really so competitive, so self-centered, that he couldn't even appreciate someone else—a brother—who had out-thought him? Did he always have to be the only one orchestrating the success? His mindset had always been such, and it had served him well up to this point. He could say the commander had merely gotten lucky with his hit-or-miss decision to trust the wolf; but that would only entail his own self-deception. The truth was, the commander had sensed something he had not. The commander possessed a talent he did not. And the commander had led them to safety where he had not.

"Let's just hope we have no more surprises," 7567 concluded.

Within a minute, the rest of the platoon emerged from the passageway, along with the wolf. Immediately, the animal moved in a series of leaps up the mountainside, stopping to perch on a rocky outcropping above them. As the commander emerged on his litter, he directed his gaze towards the creature and without a word, without even a gesture, he managed to express his gratitude. Whatever the understanding was, whatever the connection, he knew his message was received. And as the platoon moved down towards the wooded lowlands, and the wolf was lost from sight, a single howl—a parting note—rose into the air and followed them.

And long after the others could no longer hear it, CT-3636 continued to discern its echo.

* * *

"Well, none of us saw that coming," Captain Spicer grinned. He turned to Captain Skidz. "I thought the Mountain Wolves were reclusive."

Skidz shrugged in a show of fake nonchalance. "Apparently not as reclusive as we believed."

"They're closer now than they would have been had they stayed with the original course," Captain Scarlett noted. "That wolf helped them . . . consciously."

"He just wanted them out of his territory," Skidz replied. "I admit I half-expected CT-7567 to blow them all to pieces. He tends to be trigger-happy."

Captain Spicer deferred. "He's excitable, but I wouldn't say I've seen anything to mark him as trigger-happy."

"You've known him for three weeks. I spent ten years growing up alongside him," Skidz pointed out.

"Yes, but four months on the front lines tends to change a man," Spicer pushed back.

Major Tides interrupted. "I think what we've seen here says more about CT-3636 than it does CT-7567. CT-3636 had some sort of connection with that wolf." A pause. "And as a fellow clone, I find that impossible to explain. None of us have that kind of inherent ability."

"Maybe it's a learned skill," Captain Scarlett proffered.

"You can learn how to build a blaster. You can learn how to construct a pontoon bridge. You can even learn how to set a broken bone. But that sort of . . . telepathy or empathy or whatever you want to call it, that forms no part of who we are," Tides said. "A man has to have a predisposition to such a thing, I would venture."

"Well, I call it luck," Captain Skidz persisted. "The wolf wanted them gone, and instead of fighting them, it led them away. I think it had nothing to do with CT-3636 in any way other than the fact that he decided to follow it. There was no communication. It was the only reasonable course of action."

"Reasonable? To follow a wolf? You're just being stubborn now," Captain Scarlett said. "If you don't want to admit that there was something . . . un-clone-like going on there, that's your prerogative. But don't damage your own credibility by trying to claim it was a reasonable decision. The reasonable decision would have been to keep going back down the way they came."

"CT-7567 had the reasonable decision," Major Tides concurred. "CT-3636 was operating on gut and instinct – according to his own words." He chuckled and mused, "That's a switch, isn't it? If I were going to bet on who would be most likely to trust his gut, I'd have chosen the lieutenant. This has been a rather pleasant surprise. I didn't know the commander had it in him."

"Well, they're not at the end yet," Captain Skidz sneered. "They could still run into trouble."

"You almost sound like you're hoping for it," Captain Spicer noted.

"I'm indifferent," Skidz replied.

But his words fooled no one.

* * *

"Stop for five!" CT-7567 shouted, then turning to CT-4441, "Take a look at the men. See how everyone's doing." A moment later, he hunkered down beside CT-3636. "We're making excellent time. I'd say three more hours, tops."

"Good. The men are holding up well," 3636 stated. "So far, it's been quiet this side of the mountain."

"If this were one of the ranges, I'd be expecting them to throw some other obstacle into our path," 7567 admitted.

"Don't discount that possibility yet," 3636 warned.

A moment of awkward silence followed before CT-7567 spoke again. "You were right. About the wolf."

When CT-3636 did not respond right away, 7567 went on. "I should have trusted you. The cadets did. I should have, too."

"I didn't expect you to," came the cool reply.

The bluntness with which these words were spoken prodded CT-7567's sense of pride. He had figured CT-3636 would be magnanimous in the face of this quasi-apology. But instead, the commander was agreeing with and confirming the lieutenant's assessment of his own shortcomings and failings.

And now CT-7567 felt a compelling need to defend his lack of faith.

"It just . . . it seemed crazy," he explained.

CT-3636 looked at him with an expression that fell somewhere between pity—which CT-7567 could not abide—and scoffing—which was only marginally more tolerable. "How is it that a tactical officer whose entire war experience consists of plotting battles on holo-grids has a readier comprehension of the intangible than a front-line officer in one of the most battle-hardened units in the GAR?" A pause. "Does the lack of a Jedi in your unit turn you all into skeptics?"

This was too much for CT-7567 to bear. "You, who do nothing but find fault with everyone and everything that crosses your path—you want to call me a skeptic? You want to criticize me for not believing in what I can't see or hear or touch? I'll tell you this, Commander. Even if I were serving side-by-side with a Jedi, I'd still place my first trust in my own skills."

"That's only because you've never seen the Force in action," the commander replied evenly.

"I've seen General Shaak-Ti—"

"That's the Force being used at peace," 3636 cut him off. "Seeing it used for combat . . . you won't doubt its existence." A pause. "That is, if you ever get into a Jedi-led unit. The thing that holds you back, Lieutenant, is your own conviction that you're always right."

"And the thing that holds you back, Commander, is that you think you're too good for the rest of us."

Despite 7567's attack, CT-3636 maintained a placidity that could only have been learned with much practice or from much observation.

"CT-7567, sit down."

And although it took the entirety of his will and good sense, CT-7567 drew in a deep breath and hunkered down beside him.

"Yes, Commander."

CT-3636 began speaking in such a calm and persuasive voice that CT-7567 found himself listening with rapt attention, despite his ire.

"You're wrong. About a lot of things," he began. "But one thing you're absolutely right about, one thing you're perfect at . . . is leading men. I've seen that with your ARC squad mates and now with these cadets." A pause. "I don't have that. I have the ideas. The problem-solving skills. But I don't have a rapport with the troops. You're the one who's led these men for the last three days. I've come up with plans, but you're their platoon leader." He lowered his voice. "But you don't fool me. You go around acting as if you're the most open-minded, spontaneous trooper out there. But you have your own unwritten rules that govern everything you do. And the first rule, the most important rule that you've created is to trust no one above yourself." A pause. "And then, when you encounter something you don't understand, you call it into question."

CT-7567 was silent.

"If you want to go from being one of the best to being the best," CT-3636 went on, "Work on learning to trust others. And one more thing: not every disagreement is meant as an attack. Now, I think we should get moving again. I'm ready to end this thing."

CT-7567, still somewhat bemused, merely nodded before getting to his feet. He had decided with great certainty that, among his clone acquaintances, CT-3636 was undoubtedly the most difficult to figure out.

But as he was soon to discover, the title of "most difficult" was purely dependent on the trials of the moment.


	67. Chapter 66

_**Dear Reader, thank you to my reviewers, the Unnamed Guest and the other guest! This is a long chapter, but it contains one of my favorite scenes. I would like to dedicate this to the memory of my dear, dear friend, Richard Adams, who passed away on Christmas Eve. Mr Adams was the author of Watership Down and the man who inspired me to want to be an author. He was 96 years old and simply an incredible, generous, and loving man. In England at his funeral, I was reminded just how much he influenced my writing and love of prose. Rest in peace, dear friend. God speed.**_

Chapter 66 The Glimpse of Freedom

" _Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth and danced the sky on laughter-silvered wings.  
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds and done a hundred things  
You have not dreamed of."_

 _High Flight_  
John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

* * *

"We made it," Jesse stated with a hint of joy but even more of satisfaction in his voice.

"I can hardly believe it," CT-2085-4 said. "I thought for sure we'd run into some other catastrophe on this last stretch."

"Look there, just past the ruins . . . it's a gunship," Hardcase pointed out. "I've never been so happy to see one of those ugly buggers."

"I'll be happy to get back to some real food." This from CT-4441.

"You think the mess halls serve real food?" Jesse quipped.

"Better than a nutrient bar."

Ahead of them, the commander and the lieutenant were being greeted by the reception team, which consisted of two members of the flight crew and two medics.

A brief flurry of congratulations was exchanged, and the platoon was quickly loaded onto the gunship. Almost immediately, the medics clustered around CT-3636, who barely tolerated their attention and made certain his irascibility was clear to everyone. Why did they have to fuss over him in public? He'd be perfectly content to let them poke and prod and do whatever else they felt necessary in the privacy of the infirmary back at the main base. But here in front of the men, it was embarrassing.

CT-7567 stood in the rear of the gunship, leaning back against the inner fuselage wall. He would not deny how exhausted he felt, but he was determined to hold out until he was back in his room before collapsing. He owed a strong finish to these cadets.

"Looks like you chaps had a rough time," one of the flight crew remarked to him. "But everyone made it. That's a good job."

"I think we owe a lot of our success to luck," CT-7567 deferred.

"Well, there are some other platoons that could have used some of your luck," the crewman replied. "You're our sixth pickup. Two of the other platoons lost men. If you finish with the same number you started with, that's an accomplishment."

CT-7567 absorbed this in silence. He did not inquire after the losses. At the moment, he didn't want to know. It would be better to wait until after he'd had a shower, some food, and a decent sleep before addressing the issue of who had made it and who hadn't.

Arriving back at the base, the platoon was given a Myottan standard day 28-hour stand-down to be followed by a debrief and after action report session with both trainees and cadets.

CT-7567 parted from his platoon, and as they were shuttled off to their barracks accommodations, he returned to his room in the ARC Training quarters.

His first order of business was a shower. A real one with real water. And a long one.

So long and so hot that he almost fell asleep on his feet under the spray.

Now that the exercise had come to its end, he could allow himself to feel what he'd kept at bay for the past three and a half days.

Every muscle ached. His skin felt dry, chafed and brittle. He'd forgotten just how much the armor and helmet protected him not only from enemy fire but from the elements. His eyelids were like weighted scales, and he could not stifle the string of continual yawns. This was a degree of exhaustion that, though it had a physical aspect to it, was mostly mental. The truth was, he simply did not want to think about anything for at least . . . twelve hours. Yes, that should be enough. So, although he could scarcely believe it, he was going to choose sleep over food.

After all, food in the training facilities was not a scarce commodity. It was available all day and all night.

Sleep, on the other hand, was something that had to be snatched when and where a trooper could find it.

* * *

The door had a distinctive hiss when it opened.

Distinctive, yes. But it wasn't loud. The fact that the sound had woken CT-7567 from his sleep was a nagging reminder of just how conditioned the lieutenant was to detecting the slightest disturbance, even from the depths of a sound sleep.

He drew in an abrupt breath, signaling his return to consciousness, then dragged his arm down to his side. He'd developed a habit of sleeping with his right arm bent above his head – a comfortable way of dealing with an old wound. He would awake with the blood drained and the arm numb, and then dread would set in, in anticipation of the prickly pins and needles that inevitably accompanied the return of feeling.

He opened one eye and saw Cody moving about in the low light.

"You're back," he said—or rather, mumbled—in a hoarse voice.

"Yeah," the commander replied. "Sorry for waking you."

"Enh, it's okay." He turned his one-eyed gaze to the chronometer by his bed. "I've been sacked out almost eight hours."

"Well, that's what I plan on doing," Cody stated.

CT-7567 gave a bleary smile. "I'm going for twelve. Maybe fourteen."

"Then don't let me disturb you."

There was something odd in the commander's voice, in his manner, and CT-7567 noticed it right away. Commander Cody might always present himself with calm self-possession, but this was an almost calculated blandness, a fabricated nonchalance that bordered on indifference.

And CT-7567 wasn't about to let it go unquestioned. He recalled the words of the gunship crewman, that there had been casualties in other platoons, and he feared the worst. "How'd you all do out there?"

"We passed."

"With some time to spare, it looks like."

Cody began tossing filthy, grime-caked Class B uniform items and their associated accoutrement onto the floor. "Yep. Time to spare." A pause. "And two injured men who had to be evac'd out."

CT-7567 pushed up onto one elbow. "No kidding? Who? ARC trainee or cadet?"

"Two cadets," the commander replied. "I went to check on them before coming here. It's touch-and-go."

The lieutenant was now fully upright in the bed. "What happened?"

"We were passing through a bog, and something got hold of them and dragged them under the water," Cody explained. "They came back up to the surface less than thirty seconds later, but they had these . . . they were like burn marks wherever the thing had touched them. Their injuries were too severe for our medic. So . . . whatever way the cadre had of tracking us, they knew what had happened and sent out a rescue team, took the two cadets and . . . now they're in the main medical wing."

"They're not going to make it?" 7567 inquired.

"I don't know. The docs gave them a fifty-fifty chance," Cody replied. "I'll go check again after a few hours sleep, but right now I need a shower. We spent almost the entire time wading through swamp after swamp. Force only knows what parasites we probably picked up."

CT-7567 frowned. He did not like seeing his room-mate's anguish. Commander Cody was the sort of man who bore all trials with equanimity, endured losses with reason and composure, and seemed impenetrable when it came to feelings of sadness or remorse.

As such, it was uncomfortable to see him so low, so dull.

"You want to go get some chow when you're done in there?" 7567 asked helpfully.

"We'll see. I think I'll probably just want to catch some shut eye," the commander replied. "I'll see how I feel when I come out."

It was a full thirty minutes before he came out, looking as if he had scrubbed every inch of his body with a hair-wire brush.

"Krebs, what did you do? Try to scrub off every original skin cell?" CT-7567 quipped.

"And I still feel like I've got that slimy osik all over me," Cody replied. "It may be weeks before I feel clean again."

"So, you hungry? You want to go get something?"

"Not now, Blondie. Let me catch a few hours first."

CT-7567 nodded. "Good. That way I can catch a few more hours, too. But for crying out loud . . . can't you come up with something better than Blondie? I've dealt with that for three weeks, and it's going to stick if you keep using it."

Cody couldn't quite bring himself to crack a smile, but he put some small enthusiasm in his voice. "I'll work on it."

* * *

The following day, it was Commander Cody who still managed to wake up first, despite CT-7567 having a head start on him. And again, even his quiet movements were enough to rouse CT-7567 from his sleep.

"I'm heading over to the medical wing," the commander announced as he pulled on his utility uniform.

"I'll go with you," CT-7567 stated.

"That's okay. You don't need to," Cody replied.

"Oh, but I do," came the sure response. "One of my own platoon mates is in there."

Cody raised a brow. "Who?"

"CT-3636. I think one of my cadets might have been kept overnight for observation, too," 7567 said.

"3636? What happened? Is it serious?"

"I'll explain on the way there."

A few minutes later, they were both dressed and on their way to the medical wing. And, as promised, CT-7567 relayed the entire story of his platoon's adventures – or misadventure, as the case turned out.

Cody listened in amazement. When CT-7567 concluded the tale, the commander blew out a sigh of awe. "Do you live a charmed life, Lieutenant? I can't believe your platoon made it through all that without any losses."

"We came close," 7567 replied. "Me and 3636 were lucky. We had an incredible platoon of cadets." He grinned suddenly. "Speaking of which . . . here they are."

They were entering the medical wing and directly ahead, coming towards them was Saber Squad, minus Jesse.

The cadets drew up before the two officers and took a respectful stance.

"Lieutenant," CT-4441 greeted him, then seeing the rank on his companion's suit, added, "Commander."

"I was just telling Commander Cody about you all," CT-7567 announced.

It was something CT-7567 could not have imagined had he tried, but 4441 actually blanched.

"Commander . . . Cody?"

Clearly, the name was as well known to cadets as it was to active duty troopers.

"He's my room-mate," 7567 went on, enjoying the cadets' reactions.

"It's an honor to meet you, Commander," CT-4441 said with uncharacteristic reserve.

"Hm, I think the honor is mine," Cody replied. "Anyone who could keep up with this guy for four days has got to have something on the ball."

The cadets chuckled.

"We wanted to impress him," CT-4441 said. "He had faith in us the whole time. We were honored to have him as our officer."

"More unadulterated praise?" Cody said, looking at his roommate with a glint in his eye.

"Well earned," CT-7567 replied without even a smidgen of humility. Then to his cadets, "Did they keep Jesse?"

"Yes, Sir. They've kept him since we got back, but he should be released in time for the debrief," CT-4441 answered. "We also went to see Commander Wolffe, but he was in a bacta tank, so no visitors."

"Commander Wolffe?" Cody asked.

CT-7567 beamed from ear to ear. "CT-3636. Did you come up with that yourself?" he asked CT-4441.

"CT-2085-4 came up with it. He just started using it, and well, the whole platoon sort of picked it up after we got back to our barracks," 4441 replied.

"I like it. It's fitting," 7567 nodded. "Does he know?"

"No, Sir. He was already in the bacta tank."

"Well, I'll make sure it sticks. And I'll see you at the debrief."

The cadets departed, and the two ARC trainees continued on.

"That bit you told me about 3636 and the wolves . . . that's incredible," Cody remarked.

"Well . . . I admit that I was pretty skeptical of it the whole time," 7567 conceded. "But it made me wonder: do Jedi generals rub off on their officers? I mean, word has it that General Plo Koon is an empath, and then CT-3636 blows us all away by having some kind of connection with that wolf." He turned a questioning eye to his roommate. "It's a good question, isn't it? Do clone officers become like their Jedi?"

"I don't know the answer to that," the commander replied.

"Well, are you anything like General Kenobi?"

Cody grinned. "You'd have to ask my men."

"Ah, that's a copout, Commander," CT-7567 chided.

"No, it's not," Cody pushed back. "You're asking me a question I really can't answer."

The lieutenant would have pursued the matter, but the two of them had entered the ante-chamber into the bacta facility.

A Kaminoan male was at the med-tech desk.

"Commander Cody, you've come back to check on the two cadets, I assume," the technician stated in the slow, dulcet tones of his kind.

"Yes," Cody replied. "Is there an update?

"In fact, there is." A pause. "Doctor Hemon-Sa upgraded their prognoses to better than a sixty percent chance of survival. The Philomat-infused bacta is exceeding expectations and repairing the damage at an astounding rate. These two clones will likely be able to be returned to training, only slightly behind the rest of their lot number."

"That's good news."

The commander's expression of relief was well-measured and professional, but CT-7567 could sense the greater emotion behind it.

"What about CT-3636? How's he doing?" 7567 asked.

"He will be out of the bacta tank by tomorrow evening," came the reply. "Your field medic did an excellent job protecting the wound. No sign of infection, and the bacta patches had already started the healing process."

CT-7567 puffed up with pride. "We did have an incredible medic." He glanced at Cody. "What did I tell you? These guys were the cream-of-the-crop." Then to the tech once more, "What about Jesse? Can we see him?"

"CT-5579 is in room C-90. He is permitted visitors," the tech replied.

As it turned out, the visit was short, for Jesse was due for a bandage change just as the two officers arrived; so, some pleasantries were exchanged, an inquiry of how he was feeling, and an expression of anticipation for the debriefing later in the day.

CT-7567 and the commander decided to head to the dining facility, and as they walked through the rather quiet hallways – for many of the ARC trainees and their cadet squads had only recently returned from their land navigation exercise and were sleeping it off, just as the squads that had finished earlier had done—CT-7567 could detect in his companion's demeanor a lingering heaviness that had followed them from the medical wing. And he decided to try and do something about it.

"That's good that your two cadets are going to be okay," he ventured.

"Yeah, thank for Force," Cody agreed. "Yesterday, things weren't looking so good. Now, they're going to not only make it, but they'll be able to complete their training without missing much time. Things can turn around quickly, can't they?" It wasn't a question as much as an assertion.

"We're bred to be tough."

"But not perfect. We still make mistakes." Cody shook his head almost imperceptibly. "It was my fault that they were injured. We knew something was in that water, but I decided to go through it anyway."

CT-7567 regarded him sidelong. "You said practically the entire time was spent in the water. What choice did you have?"

"There were choices," the commander replied. "We could have found a way to go overland. It would have taken a lot longer, but there were ways."

Never one to mince words, CT-7567 spoke directly. "Second-guessing yourself again?"

"Don't start," Cody warned, but his voice contained no conviction.

"I'm not, I'm not," CT-7567 begged off. "I'll just never understand how you can be so wishy-washy."

"Feeling bad about what happened to those two cadets isn't wishy-washy," the commander said pointedly.

"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about you wondering if you did the right thing," 7567 countered. "You just seem to . . . change your mind a lot."

"One thing I haven't changed my mind about . . . you're the most difficult person I've ever met." A pause. "Here I've got things on my mind, and you're only interested in getting on my nerves."

"That's not true. I just think sometimes you . . . you spend too much time inside your own head," 7567 pressed.

"And you don't spend enough inside yours. Now, let's just go get something to eat. I'm starving."

"Well, that's something we can agree on."

* * *

When CT-7567 walked into the debriefing room, he was surprised to see that the entire platoon was already there; and he was equally happy to see the fervor with which they greeted him.

He noted that Saber Squad was once again complete, with Jesse now released from the medical wing. He joined the men and they carried on casual chatter until Captains Spicer, Scarlett and two members of the cadre, one of whom was Captain Skidz—entered the room.

Everyone took their places.

As far as briefings went, it was a lively exchange as the cadets vigorously defended their actions against any criticisms. But it seemed that the bulk of the criticism—most of which came from Captain Skidz—was reserved for the two ARC trainees who had been the platoon leaders.

And since CT-3636—now referred to exclusively among the cadets as Commander Wolffe—was still in the medical wing—CT-7567 gamely fielded every critique.

For three hours, the discussion went on.

Upon its conclusion, CT-7567 inquired when the platoon was due to return to Kamino.

"Not until tomorrow morning," Jesse answered.

"Great! Then that gives us some time to pull up a scenario in one of the lower ranges," 7567 enthused.

"Fantastic!" CT-4441 exclaimed.

"Yeah, you know, we've broken every record on the Citadel scenario," Hardcase boasted.

CT-7567 gave an indulgent grin. "The Citadel? Wait til you see the ARC ranges. They're like nothing you've ever experienced before."

Captain Spicer, overhearing their talk, leaned in. "You're going to need a controller for that."

"I was just going to use one of the smaller ranges," 7567 said.

"Okay. So, you'll need one controller. I'm volunteering."

CT-7567 smiled brilliantly. "You'd be most appreciated, Sir."

* * *

Cody sat on the edge of his bed. He had just come from his own debriefing; and although it had been very informative, it had gone on for a long time – too long. It had been one continual reminder of his poor decision—a decision that had not been his first choice but a decision he had embraced nonetheless. He could have chosen a safer route, a longer route. He hadn't been forced into the decision. He had chosen that particular course because it had seemed to be the prevailing desire within his platoon. His fellow platoon leader, CT-1944 from the 3d Infantry Regiment, had been an outstanding co-leader. The two had done a good job of sharing the responsibilities. The decision to go through the swamps had been one they had come to together, yet as the senior officer, Cody felt the burden of that decision most heavily upon his shoulders.

Of course, such load-bearing was also simply a part of his personality. CT-7567 had been correct when he'd wryly accused him of being a serious man. But what was wrong with that? War was a serious matter, and it would have been foolish of him to take it lightly.

It wasn't that Cody was all work and no fun. He enjoyed a good time as much as the next man – when a good time was to be had, seldom as that may be. He actually had a light side, a good sense of humor, and a genuine enjoyment of socializing. He was that rare officer who could draw the very fine line between being a friend to his troops and being their superior.

But at the moment, he cared neither for their friendship nor their supervision. At the moment, he preferred being alone in his room, going over the events of the land navigation exercise. Or more accurately, going over the events that had resulted in the two cadets being injured. He would learn from this mistake, just as he learned from every mistake – his or someone else's.

It was rare that Cody found himself engrossed in his own thoughts. Contrary to CT-7567's accusation, he felt that he tended to stay in his head only as long as was necessary to evaluate and consider options. But this time was different, so much so that it was well towards midnight before it finally occurred to him that CT-7567 had not yet returned to the room.

"Eh, Force only knows what he's up to," the commander said aloud. "I can only hope his debriefing hasn't lasted this long."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the door opened and in strode his roommate.

"I was starting to wonder if you'd got lost," Cody remarked.

"Nope. I was with my platoon on Range 4B. We were running the Geonosis scenario . . . as much as you can do with a single controller," came the buoyant reply. "It was great."

"You were with your platoon this whole time?"

"The whole time. We spent nearly three hours on the range, and then we went to the mess hall, had a bite to eat, and just hung out." He sat down on his bed across from Cody. "They're an incredible group of brothers. I'd welcome them in the 729th any day."

"You can always put in a request."

"I'm just a lieutenant," 7567 replied. "But maybe my colonel can swing something."

"They'd probably love to be assigned under you," Cody opined.

"Of course. Who wouldn't?" CT-7567 began to undress. "Have you been here all night?"

"Yeah. I came straight back after the debrief," Cody replied.

"Well, you don't look like you were sleeping."

"I wasn't. I was just going over the exercise . . ."

"You didn't go over it enough in the debrief?"

"I like to be thorough," the commander said.

CT-7567 believed him, but he could also hear the preoccupation in his voice and sense it in his manner.

"Tomorrow, the cadets go back, and we have another lecture scheduled for manually calculating hyperspace jumps," he stated. "Boring, boring, boring."

"It's only boring to you because you can't do it," Cody replied, lying back and putting his hands behind his head.

"Well, I'll get it . . . eventually," the lieutenant said. "I still don't see why it's something we even need to learn. Computers do all that stuff. When will we ever need to calculate a jump on our own?"

"You'd be better at it if you practiced," Cody chided. "But instead, you spend your free time messing around with that jetpack."

"I'm not _messing_ around. I'm improving it. You know the current model jetpack is substandard," 7567 stated. "I want to make it better."

"Better?"

"Faster, able to carry more weight, better control, power launch—"

"Don't you think it's best to leave all those improvements to the engineers who designed the packs?" Cody challenged.

"No." CT-7567 was direct and assured. "When you know something, when you're good at something, you don't wait around for others to figure things out. You do it yourself."

"Huh, that certainly seems to describe you," Cody chuckled, then in a more reserved and thoughtful tone, he added, "I'm not quite the risk-taker you are."

"No one is," 7567 beamed as he headed for the refresher.

Cody laughed again under his breath. "True. Turn the light out when you're finished."

CT-7567 smiled to himself. He'd succeeded – at least, partially – in getting his roommate's mind off his circular worrying.

Tomorrow, he would complete the task.

* * *

"Unh! For the love of . . . "

"Wrong again?"

CT-7567 scowled. "That's the third one in a row."

"You're overthinking them," Cody stated. "Good grief, what are all these calculations? This last one was only a ten-step process. You must have . . . thirty equations here."

"Well, I was . . . the parallax figures weren't . . . there were too many, and I wasn't sure which ones to use in which steps of the calculations . . . so I . . . " He fell silent with a self-righteous scowl.

"Blondie, if you can't pass this, you're going to fail ARC school," Cody warned.

"I'll get it."

"We've had at least 24 hours worth of training on this, and you're still terrible at it. I don't think you've gotten one right."

"It's not as if I'm not trying," CT-7567 pushed back. "Besides, I'm good at a lot of other things."

"You can be great at other things, but if you fail any part of this course, you're not going to be an ARC trooper." Cody paused. His manner became pensive. "Here, it's not enough to do your best."

CT-7567 stole a quick glance at his roommate and saw that the worries of the previous day had still not dissipated. And he didn't like it. He didn't like seeing Cody operating under the pall of doubt. He knew that the commander had already gone that morning to see the two cadets in the medical bay—they had not shipped back to Kamino with their platoon—and the rest of the caderts—that morning due to their ongoing treatment. The word from the doctor had been good, but Cody was still carrying a bucket of guilt over their predicament. Make no mistake, the commander's concern over the training accident was _not_ something he wore on his sleeve. In fact, CT-7567 was certain that the only reason he had noticed it was because he roomed with the man and had gotten to know him well enough to detect the subtle changes in his demeanor. To the rest of the trainees, Commander Cody was still the great immovable rock upon which waves crashed and broke apart.

"It is if your best is _the_ best," 7567 countered. "And I know I'm not worth a bantha's hide when it comes to this stuff, but I'll figure it out just enough to pass."

"Yeah." The commander suddenly seemed very disinterested.

" _Yeah,"_ CT-7567 said in the silence of his thoughts. _"And there are things you need to figure out. And I'm going to make sure you do."_

* * *

Bravo Company spent that afternoon on one of the outdoor firing ranges learning how to rig makeshift explosives and deliver them on targets up to five kilometers away.

For Cody, it was interesting work. And being back with his squad mates felt good. By the time Bravo returned from the range, an hour before dinner, he had worked up an appetite. He went to his room first to change, and here his plans were altered.

The moment he walked in, CT-7567 was there to greet him.

"It's about time," the lieutenant exclaimed. "I was starting to think they were going to keep you guys out there all day."

"It was a productive session," Cody replied. He eyed his roommate with suspicion. "What's that look on your face?"

"I've got something I want to show you. Come on."

"Woah, hold on. I'm starving. I came here to change and then I'm heading to the mess hall—"

"The chow hall is open all night—"

"They only serve dinner for a three-hour window—"

"We won't be three hours," 7567 assured him. "Come on, just . . . humor me."

Cody hesitated a moment, trying to figure out what he could possibly be up to. "Okay, but by the Force, if this is something that's going to get us into hot water, I will make sure you live to regret it."

"We won't get in trouble," 7567 dismissed. "You worry like an old woman."

They left the room and wended their way through the corridors until at last they came to a large hangar where at least two dozen transports were lined up.

"Are we stealing a ship?" Cody joked.

"Nope. Better."

They crossed the entire distance of the hangar, coming to a small maintenance enclave near the hangar doors. Here, they were met by a maintenance clone.

"Ah, you're back, Sir," the sergeant greeted CT-7567, then he nodded respectfully at Cody. "Commander, it's an honor."

Cody gave a droll grin. "I'm still not sure why I'm here."

The maintenance clone looked pleased as he turned with a flourish to the wall-mounted table behind him. "This is why."

Cody had not noticed the two jetpacks laying on the table until now.

"What's this?"

"We're going up for a flight," CT-7567 replied exuberantly.

"We?"

"Well, yeah, I need someone to be with me while I'm testing out my improvements."

Cody laughed in disbelief. "There's no way in hell I'm strapping on one of your souped up jetpacks."

"You don't have to," 7567 said. "This one is a regular one. That way you're nearby in case something goes wrong." An excited and mischievous sparkle shone in his eye. "And . . . it will be fun, something we can do _just for fun_."

"And do we, uh, have clearance to have this fun?" Cody asked.

"Of course." CT-7567 walked up to the table, and the maintenance clone slipped the straps over his shoulders. As he kitted up, he directed a challenging gaze at the commander. "You're not going to flake out on me, are you?"

Cody squinted. "Not a chance." He stepped forward for his jetpack. "Just don't blow yourself up. I'm just starting to get used to you."

Once they had the jetpacks firmly in place, they walked out onto launch platform.

"So, where are we headed?" Cody asked.

"Enh, I don't know . . . wherever my mood takes us," 7567 replied. "Just try to keep up."

"Well, if your pack is faster than mine, you may end up leaving me in your contrail."

CT-7567 put his helmet on. "I'll slow down long enough for you to catch up. But . . . right now, I'm going to try a power-launch. You can, uh, just catch me on top. You might want to stand back."

Cody donned his own helmet and took several steps back.

CT-7567 drew a tiny lever down from his hand plate and moved it with his thumb. "See you in the clouds." Whatever he did next was not visible to Cody's watching eyes, but with flashing suddenness, the burners ignited and CT-7567 was rocketing skyward at a speed the commander had never seen from a jetpack before – certainly, not on lift-off.

Within seconds, the lieutenant was just a dot in the sky.

"Crazy bastard," Cody said under his breath but with an air of wonder. He ignited his own pack and climbed skyward. He passed through the thin layer of cloud to find CT-7567 hovering in wait.

"That was some take-off," the commander said.

"Such a rush!" 7567 exclaimed. "But just watch this! Follow behind me!"

Cody then watched as the lieutenant put on a display of aerobatics that would have made any other sane clone sick to his stomach.

"You'd better be careful," he warned. "Only starfighters are meant to make those kinds of moves!"

"It's the greatest feeling in the universe!" 7567 shouted into his helmet comm. "This is freedom!"

Despite the obvious risk of what the lieutenant was doing, Cody could not help but feel a sense of admiration. Observing such unfettered joy in action, he discovered an increased appreciation for his roommate's irrepressible spirit and capacity for adventure.

"Okay, then!" he said. "Let's do a tour. You take the lead, and I'll follow. Try not to leave me in your vapor!"

The next two hours would prove to be some of the most enjoyable of Cody's life. The "tour" was about as pedestrian as watching a rancor pit match. CT-7567 was too high-strung, too active to simply look at the sights of the landscape below them. No, he had to go splashing precariously through waterfalls, threading canyon needles, and—when those escapades weren't challenging enough—he opted for a brand of aerial wrestling that made Cody glad they were on the same side. At one point, the lieutenant hit the commander's kill-switch, and both commander and his jetpack went plummeting a hundred feet or so before the commander re-ignited.

The sun was low in the sky by the time they returned to the hangar.

When the sergeant saw them arrive, he came to meet them.

"Did you have a good flight, Sirs?"

"Absolutely," Cody replied. "I can't remember the last time I had that much fun."

CT-7567 grinned inwardly. He'd managed to successfully divert the commander's thoughts from the troublesome realm of the two injured cadets. It was what he had set out to do, and he had done it. Now, the question was how long would it endure.

As they left the hangar together, it might have surprised him had he known Cody's thoughts. For the commander had recognized in some inexplicable way precisely what his roommate had been trying to do. He'd known the diversionary tactic for what it was, and he was grateful and—if he dared admit it, touched—to think that CT-7567, who seemed to place so much emphasis on his own greatness and contentment, had gone out of his way to concoct such a thoughtful scheme.

And for the first time, he considered that just such a man might be a good fit for the 501st. Maybe even the 212th. In his mind's eye, he could almost picture a befuddled General Kenobi, scarcely able to figure out what to make of such a firebrand. On the other hand, when he brought General Skywalker to mind, the fit was almost perfect.

" _Hm, maybe too perfect,"_ he mused. _"They're too much alike. Without either one of them balancing out the other, they'd probably end up leading the battalion headlong into the biggest messes. Still, there's no question that he's a talent who should be working alongside a Jedi. He's the best trainee in this entire class—"_ He conceded that he was even including himself in the mix, _"—even if he can get on your nerves to no end."_

"—tweak the air-to-fuel ratio just a bit more. Maybe add some _gryssum_ to the fuel mixture. I don't know, what do you think?"

Cody pulled himself out of his thoughts. The lieutenant had been speaking—rambling, actually—the whole time, and now he was looking for his roommate's input.

Not wanting to be caught out, Cody gave a safe answer. "Oh, well, I thought it worked quite well as it was."

"Of course, it worked well; but well is . . . mediocre," 7567 replied. "You would never settle for mediocre."

Cody grinned and maneuvered the subject in order to take a shot at him. "Well, I'll tell you what I won't settle for: I won't settle for getting knocked out of the sky again. You play dirty."

"And that surprises you? I play to win," 7567 answered, then with a strange humility that was at once both affected and yet sincere, he added, "Besides, I wouldn't have let you die. I'd have caught you before you hit the ground."

"How comforting," Cody deadpanned. "Nice that you take risks with other people's lives."

And here, CT-7567 said something that Cody had not been expecting, and it opened up a whole new understanding of who his roommate was.

"The things that other people see as risks . . . I don't."

Cody regarded him as they walked on, eyeing him intently in the silence that followed. At last, he spoke. "How did you get to be so different from the rest of us?"

CT-7567 gave a one-shouldered shrug, and with a cheekiness that Cody had come to recognize as one his foremost traits, he replied, "I'm not. I just act like it."

Cody rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."

"Look, I just don't see the sorts of . . . dangers in certain things that other people see," 7567 insisted. "If you spend your time looking for reasons not to do something, you'll find them. And as far as risk goes, if I have a better than fifty percent chance of succeeding, then there is no risk."

"That is absolutely ridiculous—"

"It doesn't pay to second-guess yourself, and it doesn't pay to spend too much screwing around over a decision." A pause. " _You_ should know that."

"You know, you're the only one who would ever think of calling me indecisive—"

"No, I'm not," came the protest. "I'm just the only one who's willing to say it. And I can say it because I know _you_ really are the best. And the best can take a little healthy criticism."

Cody shook his head with a subtle smile. How was he to contend with such a man? The best he could do was try to rein in some of his impetuosity, teach him the value of humility, and maybe, occasionally, humor him just enough so that he would never lose his good nature.

For the loss of that nature would truly be an injustice.

* * *

"I don't believe this."

"It is kind of baffling." Cody held the data pad in his hand and looked at the string of calculations that scrolled down for pages, ending with yet another incorrect answer. "You're starting with the right premise, but by the time you're to the third or fourth set of parallax figures, you're messed up. And this one . . . you've completely missed the apparent-absolute magnitude comparison."

CT-7567 flopped back in his chair. He and the commander were the last two trainees left in the instruction lab. The others had left nearly an hour ago on their way to dinner.

"I never felt like a failure until this class," he groaned.

"But you must have passed navigation as a cadet—"

"Yes, but that was using computers! All I had to do was input the destination, and the computer would figure out the coordinates. I didn't have to choose parallax numbers, and spectroscopic measurements weren't anywhere on my radar," 7567 replied, sounding more perturbed than he had since coming to ARC training. "It all looks the same. It's just numbers and numbers, a universe full of numbers."

Cody looked at him with scrutiny. "I'll tell you what" he said at last. "Go to the mess hall. Get something to eat and try to clear your head."

CT-7567 was more than willing to call an end to hours of odious mathematical torture. "You coming?" he asked, getting to his feet.

"Maybe," the commander replied. "I've got a few things to take care of. I'll probably see you back at the room."

"Yeah, okay," 7567 said. "I won't be long. All I want is a good night's sleep before this stuff makes my brain explode."

No sooner had his roommate left the lab than Cody headed back for their room. He had no explanation for why this particular module was proving so difficult for a man who was every bit as smart as he was, possessed of a keen and inquiring intellect, and open to instruction. There was no reason why CT-7567 should be floundering; and yet something he had said— _It all looks the same . . . a universe full of numbers_ —had jabbed at Cody and given him an idea.

An idea he was counting on. He chuckled. This would be his definition of a risk – in more ways than one.

* * *

When CT-7567 walked into his room well after dinner, it was to find Cody waiting for him.

"Get your utility jacket, put this on—" he handed him a small pack, "—and let's go."

This was so un-Cody that at first, 7567 was not sure whether or not he should take him seriously. He reached out and took the pack. "Where are we going?"

"Just get ready and follow me. You'll find out when we get there," Cody replied.

"Is this revenge for the jetpacks yesterday?"

"Nope," Cody answered. "This time there's something _I_ want to show _you_."

Moments later, they were moving through the emptying halls of the base. Outside, the sky was darkening into twilight.

They exited the main facility and took off at a fairly quick pace along one of the many exercise trails within the extensive grounds of the sprawling compound.

"You're taking me on a run?" CT-7567 asked, trotting along behind him.

"Just follow me."

A half-mile from their starting point, they were deep into a heavily wooded area. It was here that Cody came to a stop, put his back against the perimeter wall, and held out his cupped hands. "Come on, I'll boost you up."

CT-7567 stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "What? You're going—you're going to sneak out of here?"

" _We're_ going to sneak out of here."

Now, 7567 was sure that at least one of them had lost his mind, though he wasn't sure who. "Are you crazy?"

"Just for a few hours," Cody insisted. "They won't even know we're gone."

"Of course, they'll know! Do you think every centimeter of this wall isn't monitored?"

"Then they'll send someone out to bring us back. Now, are you going or not, Mr Risk-Taker?" Cody taunted.

"Well, that's better than Blondie," 7567 smirked. "But barely. Okay, then, I'm in." He put his foot into Cody's hands and found himself on the top of the wall. Turning, he reached down a hand and pulled the commander up.

Jumping down on the other side, CT-7567 shook his head. "You sure about this?"

Cody eyed him challengingly. "You're supposed to be the fearless one. Getting cold feet?"

"Me? Of course not," came the reply. "But you, you never break the rules. What gives?"

"You'll see when we get there."

The commander led the way into the forest, moving at a good clip through the evening shadows reaching down into the woods. They were following a trail that appeared to be in relatively decent condition. It led them two kilometers northeast towards a range of old mountains, rounded by age yet still impressive and formidable.

"We're going up into the mountains?"

"Not too far, another three kilometers."

"Do you _know_ where we're going?"

Cody's smile, invisible to 7567 behind him, was audible in his voice. "You'd better hope so."

The sun fully set and the first of three moons rose as a blue lantern, casting its watery light down between the leafy boughs overhead of the path. The two clones had come to a much steeper part now, where the path mostly disappeared among the rocks and ferns and patches of lichen. It took a bit of teamwork to climb this part of the trail; but clones were masters at teamwork, and the challenge was met with vigor.

The air grew cooler, but it was still comfortable. CT-7567 whimsically imagined how pleasant it would be to sleep in the out-of-doors under these conditions, so different from his experience on Tinderhout.

When they at last stopped the steep upward climb, they were near the top of the low mountain, still well below the treeline. A narrow trail ran horizontally in the woods below the summit. Commander Cody led them north along it. It rose and fell with the dips in the ground, like a wave heading across the sea.

And then Cody took them on a different trail that headed downward in a sort of switchback pattern, over and between large rocks and exposed roots. It emerged onto a broad stone bluff overlooking the great northern forest with an unobstructed view that stretched on to the horizon. Five hundred meters below, the confluence of two mighty rivers merged their strengths in silent power. Their waters were still with only a slight breeze to occasionally stir the surface and catch the light of the first moon.

Up here, there were no sounds other than those of nature and its denizens. The buzzing and whirring and droning of the training facility could not reach these heights. No ships flew overhead.

It was as splendid a sight as CT-7567 could imagine.

"Here we are," Cody announced.

"This is what you wanted to show me?" 7567 asked, stepping out to the edge of the bluff, the tips of his boots jutting slightly over the edge.

"I thought you'd appreciate it," Cody replied.

"How did you know this was here?"

"My squad has come here on physical training exercises a few times." A pause. "Careful on the edge, there. One strong wind, and you might go flying."

CT-7567 disregarded the warning. He turned his gaze back out over the forest. "This is amazing. It's like being on top of the world."

"I'm glad you like it," Cody said. "I thought this would be a good way to say thank you."

"Thank you? For what?"

"You know for what," Cody replied. "For kicking me out of my head, as you would say . . . even if it did meaning dare-devil rocketeering with you for over two hours."

CT-7567 downplayed the praise. "Oh, eh, you'd do the same for me, right?"

A loud, shrill cry rose in the night, and following its sound, the two clones saw the silhouette of a winged creature against the moon.

"Lunar hawk!" CT-7567 gasped in the manner of a child receiving an unexpected gift. He made a sudden movement, and Cody feared for a moment, he might actually go over the cliff's edge. But he maintained his footing, sure as a Bhanasian Cliff Goat, and stood there looking as if he himself might miraculously take flight. "Look at him," he said with awe. "He's amazing. Now, _that's_ freedom. _True freedom._ "

It was not lost on Cody that his companion had an almost romantic bent when it came to certain things: flying and the freedom it entailed; the concept of brotherhood and especially brothers-in-arms; power, strength and victory. And yet, CT-7567 was very grounded, very present and aware of the here and now.

"It's definitely a better way to fly than using jetpacks," Cody stated.

"Look at him riding the updrafts." CT-7567 spoke with such reverence, it was as if he were saying a prayer. "He can sail like that with no effort . . . "

"Oh, I'm sure there's effort that we can't see," Cody pointed out. "But still, I see what you mean. They're beautiful birds."

CT-7567 turned and looked at him with an earnestness that was so genuine, it seemed foreign. It made Cody wonder if he'd gone one step too far in appealing to the fantastical side of his roommate.

"Thank you for bringing me here, for showing me this," 7567 said.

"You're welcome," Cody replied. "But, uh, I didn't bring you just for the view." He slipped his pack off and dropped to one knee to open its contents. "We've got work to do."

"Work? What work?"

"Unassisted stellar navigation."

"Ohh, why would you want to ruin this by bringing that up?" 7567 groaned dramatically.

"Because it's what I do," Cody replied.

"What? Ruin things?"

"No, I fix things," came the assured response. "You can't learn this stuff in a classroom. You said it all looks the same, it's all numbers. So, we're going to try it out here with real stars and real parallax readings and real refractional and spectroscopic measurements."

CT-7567 looked doubtful. "Cody . . . I appreciate the effort . . . "

"Don't get soft on me. Who's wishy-washy now?" Cody challenged. He drew a data pad out of his pack along with several other items. Then, straightening up, he said, "There's a spectroscope in your pack. Take it out."

CT-7567 complied.

"Now . . . " the commander looked skyward. "Pick one."

"Commander—"

"Pick one."

CT-7567 looked up into the night sky. He raised the spectroscope and captured a spectrum image of the star field then showed it to Cody, picking out a single star among the many displayed. "This one here."

"Good," Cody nodded. "So, if this were a real-world situation, what would be your next step?"

"I'd check the star charts to see determine what system I'm looking at," 7567 replied.

"And there's a fast way to do that," Cody prompted.

"Yeah, with a computer," 7567 quipped.

"Try again."

"Checking prominent stars against the scope and feeding their spectrum readings into the positioning node," the lieutenant recited the procedure as if reading from a manual, adding quickly, "Using my own known position to make sure the spectrum readings are accurate."

"Good. So do it."

Fifteen minutes later, CT-7567 raised his head from the handheld screen. "Done."

"Next?"

"You know a computer could have done that in two seconds—"

" _Next."_

"Next . . . now that I know what system I'm looking at, I would pull up parallax numbers for that system as seen from my current location." He drew in a resigned breath as he pulled up the number charts, the lists of which he had earlier spoken with such displeasure. "This is where the trouble comes in."

"Only because you're impatient," Cody replied. "Look, you've identified the system you're aiming for. You've identified the star as a white dwarf from the spectro. The fact that it's a white dwarf in this particular system should tell you something right away."

"It means the lower range of numbers can be eliminated," CT-7567 said, after which he promptly dropped at least fifty percent of the possibilities from the screen.

"So, here's where the other stars in the system can be a great help," Cody explained. "Because I think you were about to just start running numbers, right? We'd be here all night if you just tried to run every set of paras. Choose what looks like the oldest, reddest star you can find. Once you've done that, you'll be able to—"

"Eliminate the higher numbers," 7567 completed the sentence, a spark of enthusiasm entering his voice. He did as instructed, taking another fifteen minutes before announcing eagerly, "That leaves only about thirty possibilities."

"And to narrow those possibilities?"

CT-7567 considered. "Take the spectro on another star in the system?"

"You could, but there's another way now that you've narrowed it down to a small range of numbers," Cody said. He grinned with an inner knowledge. "A very, _very_ old-fashioned way."

CT-7567 looked down at the emptied contents of the two packs. On the ground beside one of them was a device rarely used in modern space travel. A Brigney Stellar protractor, named after the spacefarer who had invented it in the days before most of the known galaxy had even achieved hyperspace capability. And the instant the lieutenant's eyes fell on the device, he wondered how he could have ever missed such an obvious next step, and it occurred to him that sometimes, perhaps the old way might be the best way.

He picked up the protractor and fed in the lowest and highest set of parallax numbers. Then, looking through the digital eyepiece, he watched as the device drew in two lines based off those figures. Between those two lines, only one white dwarf star appeared. He manually narrowed the lines until the eyepiece display showed a new set of parallax numbers.

"I've got it," he announced, working hard not to sound too excited.

"So, check those numbers against your remaining list, and once you know which set to use, you can begin making your calculations for a jump to hyperspace."

And just over thirty minutes later, CT-7567 presented the data pad to the commander.

Cody looked it over, smiled, and handed it back. "Do it again."

CT-7567's face fell. "It's wrong?"

"No, it's right. Do it again . . . with a different star. And do it faster. A star that distance should have only taken you an hour tops to figure out. Thirty minutes would have been acceptable. Ten minutes is ideal."

"Ten minutes? Are you crazy?"

"Pick another star and let's do it again."

And so CT-7567 picked another star. And then another, and another after that.

By the time he'd finished, he had calculated eight jumps – all successfully. At that point, Cody decided it was time to call it a night.

"I think you've got the idea," the commander observed.

"I think so."

"Good, then we should get some sleep before heading back."

"Sleep . . . out here?"

"You said you wanted to, didn't you?" Cody reminded him.

"I did, but . . . I didn't think you'd want to," 7567 grinned. "You're just breaking all kinds of rules, aren't you?" He watched as the commander drew two expandable hammocks from his pack. "You brought hammocks? You were planning this all along?"

Cody gave a sardonic grin. "I knew we'd need all night to remind you how do something you already knew how to do." He tossed a hammock to his roommate and began repacking the equipment. "Although it seemed to come back to you pretty quickly."

"I never knew how to do all that stuff," 7567 replied. "That's way beyond what we learned in basic."

"Yeah, but you knew how to figure out the steps to follow," Cody pressed. "You knew there was a logical progression. You just needed the right environment in order for it to come to you. You're not a classroom or laboratory learner. I knew if I could get you out here, you'd think it through and it'd be easy for you."

CT-7567 chuckled. "You knew that, huh?"

"I did."

"Well . . . I'm glad you had some insight into me that even I wasn't aware of," 7567 acknowledged. "And I'm glad you brought me to this place." A pause. "Not just for the instruction, either. I'm glad you showed me this place." He took a small poke. "Even if we do end up getting in trouble for breaking the rules."

"Sometimes, the rules have to be broken," Cody replied. "I think I learned that from you."

"Sorry if I'm a bad influence," 7567 said, sounding anything but sorry.

"Not bad, just . . . a little off-kilter," Cody grinned.

And because CT-7567 could find nothing to disagree with in the commander's statement, he simply fell back on being useful and setting up his hammock. He had a feeling he would sleep very well tonight.

 _ **My favorite scene is the jaunt through the woods and the lunar hawk. FYI, I listened to "Yosemite" by David Arkenstone over and over again while writing that bit, but the scene is actually based on Maryland Heights above Harper's Ferry in Maryland.**_

 _ **The jet pack was written to the tune of "Rocketeer to the Rescue" from Disney's movie, "The Rocketeer". James Horner was the composer - too soon taken from us.**_


	68. Chapter 67

_**Dear Reader, Thanks to Sued, Ms CT-782 (guest!) and the Unnamed Guest for your reviews. Much appreciated. Thank you for the condolences on the loss of Richard Adams. I guess it's fitting that there now follows a kind of fun chapter to life the mood. And there's a bit more exposition regarding Rex and Cody's inner workings. Of course, it comes right before a downright ridiculous chapter which is up next. We all have to have a ridiculous chapter here and there, right? I hope you enjoy. Peace, CS**_

Crimson Squad  
 **Lieutenant Bly (CT-5052): 388** **th** **Extraction Squadon, 34** **th** **Airlift Wing, 4** **th** **Brigade Combat Team (series)** ( _contentious but devoted to his squad mates; seems bitter and angry all the time)_  
 **CT-5211: Major Unnamed Communications Officer, Sector 8 HQs OC** _(cautious, overly analytical and not one to think creatively; but agreeable)_  
 **CT-4445: Clone Unnamed OC**  
 **CT-1944: Clone Unnamed** _OC (Staff Sergeant with 3d Infantry Regiment. Eager, very fit, competitive and perhaps foolhardy)_  
 **CT-1080-1: Clone Unnamed OC** _(fission mechanics and engineer; specialty clone genetically manipulated to be less prone to the effects of fission/ion generators that power Republic warships; humble, likes to follow instead of lead, observational)_  
 **CT-1789: Clone Unnamed OC** _(rank and file but has a good mind for problem-solving)_

Echo Squad  
 **Lieutenant Rex (CT-7567): 729th Tactical Combat Battalion (series) _  
Lieutenant Colt (CT-2025): (series)_** _(ebullient, very keen sense of brotherhood, well-spoken but generally quiet and observant; room-mate with CT-5052)_  
 **CT-9090: Clone Unnamed OC** _("fuel injector"; likes to be extreme in all he does, so he always appears to be throwing fuel onto the fire)_  
 **CT-390: Clone Unnamed OC** _(scientific and technically oriented; wants to know the "why" of everything)_  
 **CT-8462: Shinie Unnamed OC** _(quiet and seemingly timid; has brown eyes instead of amber)_  
 **CT-8448: Shinie Unnamed OC** _(defers to the more experienced clones, but appears to have a spark of boldness)_  
 **CT-9218: Shinie Unnamed OC** _(alert, amiable, easy-going, game for anything; good pilot in heavies and_ fighters) **CT-1550: Clone Unnamed OC** _(904th Comm Group, code-interceptors, crackers and interpreter; very smart)  
_ **CT-5576: Clone Unnamed OC** _(88th Division Artillery - DIVARTY - walker jockey, devil-may-care attitude due to walker jockeys' short life expectancy, gallows humor, speaks with a strange accent common to walker jockeys)  
_ **CT-1448: Clone Unnamed OC**

* * *

Chapter 67 A Friendly Wager

" _And if I win?" asked the beaver.  
"Then I'll let you take down as many trees as you desire," the forest master replied. "But if I win, you take only as many trees as you need."  
"Why, that's no bet at all! I only ever take what I need, never more."  
"Then it's a win-win proposition."_

 _Stories from the High_ _Lakes_ ( a collection of folk tales, this tale from Ian Flamming)

* * *

Cody always woke up ready to go.

As did most clones.

Years of conditioning on Kamino had turned out millions of young men with many of the same characteristics, one of which was the ability to go from a sound sleep to wide awake and fully aware in an instant.

There would be no lazing about in the sack after the alarm had sounded. No snoozing, no thoughtful pondering in the moments just after rising. No, any such pondering should have been undertaken in the quiet minutes before going to sleep, not upon rising.

Cody sat up in his hammock, yawned and stretched. Looking over to the other hammock, he saw it was empty. He directed his gaze towards to bluff and was not surprised when he made out the silhouette of his roommate standing on the edge as the last of the planet's moons sunk below the dark horizon.

"You're not going to try to fly, are you?" the commander quipped.

CT-7567 turned. "I wish I could. Neh, just listening to the sounds of the forest."

"Very poetic." Cody climbed down from his hammock. "Any dangerous sounds?"

"I wouldn't know," 7567 replied with a grin that was barely discernible in the starlight but clearly heard in his voice. "I'm not familiar with the wildlife around here. I would have thought you'd have gained some knowledge on that before bringing us out here in the dark."

"Never presume too much," Cody chastised. "You hungry?"

"I could do with something to eat," came the reply as he came away from the edge. "Nutrient bar?"

"Ready pac," Cody grinned.

"Nooo, how did you get a ready pac?"

"I used my charm . . . and connections," the commander replied. "So . . . I've got a Hombra Gem Fruit bread thing here . . . or a Feld Grain sweetcake. What's your pleasure?"

"You got anything hot to wash 'em down with?"

"Uh . . . " Cody pulled out a thermal sealed canister and twisted the bottom. "This should be hot in thirty seconds. Best canned caf the Grand Army has to offer."

"In that case, I'll take the Feld Grain," 7567 decided. "Otherwise, it's like eating a brick. Kinda just sits there, if you know what I mean."

"Well, they're meant to fill you up, that's why," Cody stated. "There's probably three thousand protein units in that thing."

Less than a minute later, they both stood on the ledge waiting for the burgeoning daybreak that would creep in behind them with its grey light.

"Sleep well?" Cody inquired.

"Like a stone."

"And you remember everything we went over last night?"

CT-7567 smiled at his roommate's perfect blend of business and whimsy.

"I'm pretty sure I do."

"Well, the nav test isn't until the end of training, so we still have three weeks to make sure you're up-to-speed."

"Three weeks. What else do you imagine they have planned to fill our time for three weeks?" CT-7567 asked.

"Well, we know there's an E&E segment," Cody replied. "I can only imagine what else they've got on the agenda."

A moment of quiet passed, before CT-7567 admitted, "It's been more fun than I thought it would be."

"Fun? Interesting way to put it."

"I thought I'd be bored, but . . . it's had some challenges." He left the idea hanging in the air, and Cody fully expected him to elaborate on those challenges. So when CT-7567 began speaking again, Cody was surprised at what followed. "Do you miss the 212th?"

Cody hesitated, wondering what would prompt such an inquiry. "Miss it? No. This is my place-of-duty for six weeks. When it's over, I'll go back to the battalion and pick up where I left off. I don't see any point in . . . missing it."

CT-7567 chuckled. "You don't choose to miss something. You just do." After a brief silence he went on. "Something becomes a part of your life. When you're away from it—or it's taken from you—you miss it. That is, you miss it if it was something you liked."

"Okay," Cody conceded. "I don't disagree with that."

"But you know the Kaminoans would consider that to be an undesirable trait in us clones," 7567 went on. "Too sentimental."

Cody laughed. "Are you saying that you're sentimental?"

"No," came the quick reply. "Just that the Kaminoans would consider it sentimental."

"I still don't understand what you're trying to say," Cody stated, taking a long swig of caf—it actually seemed to taste pleasant in these leisurely circumstances. "You're talking in circles."

CT-7567 shrugged nonchalantly. "That's who I am."

"Yeah, and I'm still trying to figure you out."

CT-7567 was direct. "I miss the 729th. I miss being with my men, fighting side-by-side with them. I miss the action on the front lines."

Cody could hear the sincerity in his voice. "That doesn't surprise me," he said. "We're bred for war, so I guess I can understand how you might miss that aspect of it—"

"No, no, that's not it. It's not the fighting I miss. It's the fighting alongside my men," 7567 cut him off. "Leading them through danger. Leading them to victory."

"Yes, but you could do that in any unit," Cody pointed out. "I thought you wanted to join the 501st? You haven't stopped talking about it since we started ARC training—"

"Those are my batchers in the 729th—"

"And yet you want to come to the 501st. Do you plan to bring all your batchers with you? I'm not sure what OMM would say about that. You must have known, coming here, that you might not be going back to your unit."

"Of course, I did—"

"Are you having regrets about it? You'll forgive me for saying so, but you don't seem like the type to have regrets about anything," the commander pointed out. "And it's not as if we have any control over our own destinies. We go where the Army tells us. We can ask for a certain assignment, but everything depends on the needs of the Army." He let his words sink in, then at length, inquired, "Would you ever really want to come to the 501st if it meant leaving your batchers behind?"

CT-7567 scanned the brightening landscape below, as if he would find the answer somewhere there among the wilderness. When, at last, he replied, it was with a calm certitude, and yet Cody could detect a note of resignation that seemed out-of-place coming from his roommate. "I would want to go wherever I was most needed."

* * *

CT-7567 jumped down inside the perimeter wall where Cody was already standing, looking through the woods.

"Looks like we've got company," the commander stated. "They must have spotted us on the monitors."

A four-man clone patrol was approaching across the uncleared ground. They did not appear to be in any hurry, nor did they act as if they were dealing with a perceived threat.

"Commander Cody," the patrol leader, a sergeant, greeted as he drew near. "We were sent out to check on two men scaling the wall."

"Well, your approach was very casual," Cody grinned.

"Oh, the bio-detectors along the wall picked up your chips, so we knew who we were dealing with before we even set out," the sergeant replied. "We've been asked to escort you back to the compound." He sounded embarrassed by this announcement. "The officer-on-duty insisted."

"Understood," Cody said with amiable professionalism, demonstrating to everyone present the demeanor that held him in such high esteem. He could have been offended by a junior enlisted man's having to escort him. He could have been offended that an officer-of-the-watch, probably a lower-ranking officer, was ordering him to be brought in. He could have made a scene, but instead he acknowledged that here at ARC training, he was not in charge; he had broken the rules and it was only proper that he be called to account.

And an interesting account it would be.

Upon entering the duty office, both he and CT-7567 were somewhat surprised to see that the officer-on-duty was Captain Skidz. It was unusual in that this particular duty usually fell to lieutenants. It was even more peculiar, given that Captain Skidz ran an entire module of the program, the E&E segment; and pulling watch duty was a rather menial task for someone with other, greater responsibilities.

"Gentlemen, please . . . come with me," Captain Skidz said with a pleasant smugness, leaving the duty office for a separate, private room.

As they walked out, CT-7567 noticed that there, in fact, _was_ a lieutenant on duty. Perhaps the lieutenant had summoned Captain Skidz when the two intruders were detected.

"Commander, I have great respect for you, and I will show proper deference to your rank," Skidz began. "But I wonder what I should put in the report regarding your unauthorized excursion. Do you care to tell me where you and CT-7567 were coming from?"

Cody continued to be affable. "We spent the night at the Mareleck Bluffs. Did you not detect our departure yesterday evening?"

"The officer-of-the-watch did, but I did not become aware of it until this morning—"

"How _did_ you become aware of it?" CT-7567 interrupted. "You're not a watch officer. Are you?"

Captain Skidz turned a disdainful eye to his former pod-mate. "I read every daily security log, in addition to at least a dozen other logs. Information is crucial in my position. This morning, when I read yesterday's log, I saw that you had snuck out. I wanted to get more information before I went to the commandant, so I came here. And as luck would have it, you both decided to return just as I walked into the room."

"And don't you think the officer-of-the-watch last night would have already informed the commandant?" 7567 challenged as Cody smiled at his roommate's brazen confrontational approach.

"Maybe he did," Skidz replied with tight-lipped control. "But that will not prevent me from also informing him."

"Uh, Captain . . . I think I can save you a great deal of time and trouble, and we can clear this up very easily if you'll contact Commander Steed," Cody stated.

"Commander Steed?"

"Yes. Just please . . . contact him. He knows all about this."

Captain Skidz appeared to hang suspended in time for a moment, as if he were on the verge of realizing that his great catch was about to be tossed back. He raised his wrist-com. "Commander Steed, this is Captain Skidz."

A second later, "This is Steed. What is it, Captain?"

"Sir, the duty officer caught two clones—two trainees—coming onto the premises this morning. They had—"

"Commander Cody and CT-7567?" Steed cut him off.

"Yes, Sir."

"They're clear. I gave Commander Cody clearance to leave the compound and take 7567 with him."

With each word, the shadow fell further adown Captain Skidz face. "Copy, Sir."

"Are they there with you now?" Steed inquired.

"They are."

"Well, they have five minutes to make it to the Platt 7 obstacle course."

"I'll tell them, Sir. Skidz out."

"There," Cody said with a cordial nod. "I think that clears everything up, Captain."

Skidz was not as friendly in his manner. It rankled him—not that Commander Cody had gotten permission to leave the compound—but that he had extended that permission to his roommate. What special privilege did CT-7567 warrant? This wasn't basic training anymore. Perks had to be earned, not given. Here, there was no golden boy, no star, no king on the pedestal. Those titles had been left behind on Kamino with the memories of cadethood.

The luck of association—association with the renowned Commander Cody—had no place as a determining factor in how a trainee should be treated. Or at least, it shouldn't.

"I apologize for the misunderstanding, Commander," the captain said with well-practiced indifference.

"No, no, you had no way of knowing," Cody excused him. "It's a good thing you followed up."

The commander and CT-7567 turned to leave.

Captain Skidz watched them go; but as 7567 walked past him, the captain was certain he could discern a snide grin and irreverent shrug— clear but unspoken signals that the lieutenant had once again managed to get the better of him.

" _Just keep smiling, you bastard,"_ Skidz simmered. _"I always knew you'd be coming through this training eventually. I've waited this long. I can wait a little more."_

* * *

"So, you weren't breaking the rules at all," CT-7567 said, sounding nearly accusatory. "You _got permission_ to leave the compound."

"Yeah," Cody replied. "I went and talked to Commander Steed yesterday while you were at dinner. You needed help, and I knew how to give it to you. But I wasn't going to break the rules to do it."

"Why did you lie to me, then? Why didn't you just tell me that we had permission? Why did you go to all the trouble of climbing over the wall and—"

"Because even though I still find you confusing as hell, one thing I did know: just walking out of here with a pass wouldn't give you the incentive you needed," Cody replied. "You like everything to feel like a challenge, bending the rules. It's like I said: you're very predictably unpredictable, you've got your own set of rules that are no one else's rules. If it's too easy, you only go through the motions. I know I can appeal to your sense of . . . mischief whenever I want to get you to do something."

CT-7567 listened in rapt attention. "You've decided all of this after three weeks of knowing me?"

"I'm a good judge of character," Cody replied. "That's the only reason I've managed to tolerate you so far." He said the last with a dash of humor.

But CT-7567 was not without his own humor. "Tolerate me? I'm the only thing that prevents you from keeling over in self-boredom."

Cody laughed. "That might be true. Let's go. If we're late, they'll have us on refresher duty, and I'm not cleaning up behind any man."

* * *

"Ah, you're here at last. I was starting to worry something might have happened to you."

CT-2025, CT-7567 had come to realize over the past three weeks, never felt any embarrassment or self-consciousness when it came to a genuine expression of his concern. There was nothing flip or insincere about his words. In fact, as far as CT-7567 was concerned, CT-2025 was as close to the ideal clone officer as he had ever met. He was completely dedicated to the brotherhood and had even taken to calling it that since meeting CT-7567. He was comfortable with being in leadership and equally content to follow. He had no discernible ego. He was more interested in the success of the squad as a whole as opposed to recognition for his own contributions.

That morning when he and the rest of the platoon had formed up at first call, he'd noticed—along with the rest of the squad—CT-7567's absence. After checking the dormitory, he'd taken it upon himself to report to Captain Spicer his squad-mate's failure to show. Captain Spicer had not seemed disturbed by the information.

"Hm, I'll have to look into that," was all the Echo Squad advisor had to say. His apparent lack of concern helped mitigate some of 2025's own apprehension; but all the same, he was happy when 7567 showed up at the obstacle course.

"Oh, Commander Cody took me on a little . . . fitness run," 7567 replied.

His squad-mates looked on with curiosity.

"So early? It's only 0530," CT-1550 asked.

"We actually went out last night," 7567 said, feeling a somewhat smug sense of privilege.

"To do what? Where did you go?" CT-9090 inquired.

"We went up to an overlook in the foothills," 7567 replied. "Someplace the commander had gone with his squad on training."

A slew of questions followed.

"Did you sneak out?"

"Did the cadre know you were gone?"

"What did you go there for?"

"Was it really Commander Cody's idea?"

"How did you get out?"

If there had ever been any doubt that CT-7567 liked being the center of attention, such thoughts were laid to rest in this moment. The lieutenant basked in the warmth of the interest being shown him. He answered the questions with a grace that seemed to contradict his character, yet it was every bit as much a part of him as his bravado. He freely admitted his difficulties with the navigation exercises and eagerly recounted the success of Cody's instructional method.

The conversation revolved around him clear up until the moment Captain Spicer called Echo Squad up to the starting line for what was one of many obstacle courses in the training camp environs.

Beside them stood CT-5052 and Crimson Squad.

Whether or not 5052 had heard any of the talk going on in Echo Squad was unclear; but what shone forth with great lucidity was the disdainful expression on his face. No surprise. It was how he always looked.

CT-7567 considered it a stroke of luck that their two squads were pitted against each other.

As the squads waited for the two previous squads to clear the course—Alpha and Gandar Squads were out-of-sight among the woods through which the lengthy and challenging course ran—CT-7567 caved in to his lesser demons. He walked straight up to the members of Crimson Squad.

"How about a friendly wager?"

The rival squad's clones faced him readily.

CT-1944, another 3d Infantry Regiment clone—and a bit on the eager side—crossed his arms in a gesture of assessment and asked, "That depends on what we're betting. What do you have in mind?"

"I hadn't really thought about that part yet," 7567 replied. "I just felt like betting. Maybe a transfer of demerits?"

"The cadre wouldn't let us do that."

"They'd never know if we did it on the sly," CT-1448 put forth.

CT-1080-1, the genetically manipulated fission engineer, piped up. "I've got an idea. We have a one-night liberty in four days. How about the loser has to buy the winners as many rounds as they can down?"

"What liberty?" 7567 asked, and a number of the other clones looked perplexed, as well.

"I overheard Colonel Claw discussing it with Commander Steed and Major Tides," 1080-1 replied.

"I heard about it, too," CT-9218—of Echo Squad—added. "Supposedly, they have four or five liberty towns, and we get a night out. Sort of a break in the action."

CT-9090, also of Echo Squad, was instantly animated. "What?! You knew about this and didn't tell us?"

"I only just heard them talking last night," 9218 replied. "I guess, with the pace of things here, they figured one night of downtime would do us trainees good."

"Downtime?! Ho-hoo! Getting out of this place for a night doesn't sound like downtime to me," a mischievous grin spread over CT-9090's face. "Sounds like this break in the action will be the perfect opportunity to _get_ some action."

More than half the clones burst out laughing.

"What action? You wouldn't know what to do with a girl if one fell in your lap," CT-390 jibed.

"Maybe not," 9090 replied without any indication that he felt insulted. "But I know what to do with a glass."

"We all know what to do with that," CT-5211, communications major in Crimson Squad, quipped, and the rest of them chuckled.

"Okay, then, here's the deal," 7567 interrupted. "If we do, in fact, have this liberty coming up, then the losers buy the rounds, just like Splitter here suggested—"

"Splitter?" CT-1080-1 knit his brows.

"It's what you do, isn't it? You fission guys are always going around splitting atoms, so I say it fits," 7567 said definitively.

"Rounds just for the other squad," the major put forth.

"For _all_ the brothers," 7567 corrected.

"All the brothers? None of us has enough credits to do that—" 1080-1 began, but CT-5052 cut him off.

"Then we buy until the well runs dry." He directed his spiteful gaze towards CT-7567 as he spoke. "Every man upon his honor."

"Every _brothe_ r upon his honor," 7567 stated.

"For those of us who possess it."

* * *

"There is no interfering with the other squad's race." This advisement came from the master sergeant in charge of the obstacle course. "You can help your own squad members, but do not hinder the other squad's progress. Clear?" This last single-word inquiry appeared to be directed at CT-7567, who reacted with noncommittal indifference.

He never understood why any set of rules governing military training – even running an obstacle course – would include an injunction against cheating. Did the makers of the rules truly believe that an enemy would play by the rules established by their adversary? If they played by any rules at all? Adhering to the rules led to predictability—

He winced internally, recalling Cody's accusation of predictable unpredictability. Yet, he was not ready to accept that this was an accurate or tenable descriptor with regard to his actions. In war, the goal was stay alive so you could kill the enemy. CT-7567 would do whatever it took to stay alive and protect his men. If that entailed cheating, so be it. He put no focus on sportsmanship or fairness, and he saw nothing wrong with that, predictable or not.

He had no illusions that if the opportunity arose on the obstacle course to slow or hamper Crimson Squad's progress, he would avail himself of it.

"There's a pair of spotters at each obstacle, but they're only there in the event of injury. And to make sure there's no funny business" the master sergeant added. After a pause, he continued. "You all have to finish together. The race isn't over until the last man crosses the finish line." A pause. "At the ready!" The two squads tensed. "Go!"

Since neither squad had been permitted to walk the course in advance, no one knew what to expect. The first obstacle was well out-of-sight within the woods, and none of the teams who had already finished had come back to the starting area to tell of what they had gone through. Even the number of obstacles was unknown.

Still, that was no deterrent to any of the members of Echo and Crimson Squads. Barreling into the unknown was something clones did on a regular basis. And they did it now.

The course could run two teams at a time, the lanes running parallel to each other separated only by a mid-ground of five meters, which meant that the two competing squads could see each other at all times.

Each lane had the same obstacles. Each lane had one spotter per obstacle.

Both squads entered the wood at the same time, running full tilt. Roughly twenty meters into the wood, they encountered the first obstacle, and it was a simple enough one: a wooden wall, only four or five meters high, smooth face, no ropes.

Reflexively, the first clones to approach the wall immediately set their backs to it, crouched slightly, and cupped their hands in front of them, ready to boost the next man to the top. The wall was wide, allowing at least three men to mount up at the same time. Once on top, they reached down and pulled their booster squad mate up and over. It took less than ten seconds to get all ten men past the obstacle.

Once on the other side of the wall, they could clearly see the next obstacle, which looked a bit more interesting. A long, rectangular pond cut into the ground, at least thirty meters long with a set of uneven wooden pilings at the halfway point. High above the segmented water hazard were two wooden triangle booms with weighted ropes affixed for crossing. On the near end of the pond was a raised platform roughly three meters high. However, the ropes—two for each team—were not waiting for the clones as they vaulted up onto the platform. They were hanging still and distant over the water.

"Well, that's beautiful," CT-9218 sneered the sort of sneer that only a Shinie could get away with and not sound like he was whining. "How the hell are we supposed to get across?"

"It's too far for anyone to try jumping out," CT-1448 stated.

CT-7567 had already come up with a plan. "One of us can shimmy up that pole and out along the boom, get to the ropes and swing them this direction."

CT-8448 did not wait for any volunteers. "I'm on it." No sooner had the Shinie started up the pole than CT-7567 noticed Crimson Squad doing the same thing in their lane.

"Stealing our idea," he remarked.

CT-2025 grinned. "In all fairness, there really wasn't any other option. They would have figured it out on their own anyway."

"You're more generous than I am," 7567 replied with humor, then with his eyes on CT-8448, he shook his head in amazement. "Look at him. He's almost to the top already. The man moves like a _Grimmelute Tarbek_."

"We've got some good Shinies in our squad," 2025 noted.

"We do," 7567 agreed. "There, he's got it. Get it swinging . . . a little more . . . that's it . . . "

CT-9090, with CT-390 holding onto his arm, reached out and made a one-handed grab as the first rope swung near. Without missing a beat, he pushed off from the platform and swung in a pendulum perfect arc to the pilings where the next rope was already waiting. He sent the first rope back across the water for the next man. Turning to cross the second half of the pond, he was about to push off when a spout of water erupted from the surface. It so startled him that he lost his balance for a moment, regaining it only by grabbing onto the pilings. Another spout shot into the air in another spot, and then another and another.

"Well, this makes things more interesting," 9090 mused aloud. "None of them look very dense. I'd probably break through even if I did hit one. Eh, what the hell." He jumped a bit into the air on this departure in order to gain some momentum; and as he crossed, the fountains plumed up around him but without hitting him. When he landed on the far side, he was wet but not soaked. Turning, he saw CT-390 now waiting at the midway, and he sent the rope back to him.

And so the crossing proceeded for the rest of them. While there were no losses, there were a lot of wet clones by the time the thing was done. So, of course, it only made sense that the next obstacle was a belly-crawl through the sandpit, beneath razor wire, while blaster blanks were fired just over their heads. Being wet had not been enough; now they emerged from this obstacle wet and caked with sand.

There followed after that, a high wall with ropes; a log run over a dug-out pit filled with a thick, reeking, murky liquid; a netting wall; and a series of chest-high logs, one right after the other for front-rolling.

CT-7567 was not impressed. He'd been on many battlefields that had presented infinitely greater obstacles than these. And the fact that Crimson Squad had kept pace with Echo only reinforced his opinion that this was all too easy. A more difficult course would have benefitted Echo Squad while presenting a greater challenge to Crimson.

He had not quite hit on boredom yet, but it was coming on quickly.

And then he and the rest of his squad came upon a spotter standing at the base of a very broad tree where there appeared to be no obstacle. The course's clear direction had disappeared.

"Where do we go next?" CT-7567 inquired. "Where's the obstacle?"

"The answer to both questions is _up_."

CT-7567 raised his gaze towards the treetops, and an enthusiastic smile broke over his face. "Now, this is more like it."

The squad had come to the aerial portion of the course – a race through the upper levels. From down below, 7567 could make out several obstacles among the branches, often stretching between multiple trees, some with mounted platforms, some without.

The spotter directed them around to the other side of the trees where a knotted rope hung down from somewhere in the reaches up above. "Up you go. There's only one way to go once you get up there, so just follow the course. There are spotters at every obstacle . . . " He grinned in a knowing manner, " . . . in case you run into trouble."

CT-7567 was first to begin the climb. And what a climb it was, taking him and his squad mates nearly fifty meters above the forest floor. Upon finally reaching the top platform, even he had to admit to himself that he was winded, that his arms and shoulders needed a bit of time to recover, which he got as the rest of the squad ascended.

While he waited for them, he looked at the first obstacle, a V-shaped rope bridge that stretched from his current platform across a 10-meter distance to the next platform, which was not a trunk platform like the one upon which he was now standing. No, the platform on the other end was a rope-net platform, the sort of thing that would require attention, balance, and exertion. Beyond that, he could see a least a dozen round "stepping stones" suspended by chains from a truss. Each "stone" was in its own harness, so it would move independently from the others.

"Now, this is going to be great," CT-7567 said as CT-5576 stood beside him.

"I think your beloved jetpacks would have come in handy here," the walker jockey stated.

The lieutenant chuckled. "This is one time I'm actually glad we don't have them. I think this is going to be fun." He looked slightly off to his right where Crimson Squad was climbing up to their platform. "We're just barely ahead of them. This is a good chance to put more distance between us."

Because CT-5576 knew the nature of the man standing beside him, he asked in a implying manner, "You're not thinking of causing trouble, are you?"

 _Predictably unpredictable._

"No, I'm just thinking we can move faster than they can," came the reply. "They're too cautious, like they're afraid of failing."

CT-5576 raised an eyebrow. "Really? Huh, I hadn't noticed that."

CT-7567 gave a one-sided grin. "You need to be more observant."

"Well, what I'm observing right now is that it's getting crowded on this platform," 5576 noted. "We should probably start moving out."

"You're right." With that, CT-7567 stepped out onto the rope bridge.

* * *

CT-5052 was not averse to taking chances. He just liked to make sure that any chance taken was worth the risk. And in his estimation, he erred most often on the side of caution. The idea of losing even a single man was something that rankled him, even as its inevitability stalked and haunted him through every waking moment. Sometimes, the fear even made it into the sanctuary of sleep, corrupting his dreams with distorted images of the past.

He had no desire to be known for his daring, his bravery, or even his honor. Those things had all flown, taken away from him at that one moment of decision two months ago on that hellhole of a planet. Let others call it Ryloth. To him, it was the one true hell, and it had spawned one true sin: the decision to leave him behind. It was an injury he could never forgive. They had been his batchers. They had grown up together, so close that they'd bled inside each other's wounds. But in that one grueling instant of choosing what course to take . . .

. . . they had chosen wrong. And he could no more forgive than he could forget.

Maybe that was what made him so fearful. And perhaps it was that fear which fueled his anger and bitterness. And it seemed only natural that such emotions would give rise to the hatred he felt for them. And men like them.

Men like CT-7567. So cocksure, so full of bravado! And revered for that bravado! The adulation, the admiration, the respect and reverence for someone who never gave a second thought to anyone else or how his decisions and his actions might affect them.

Oh yes, he'd known plenty of men exactly like CT-7567; twenty-nine of them, to be precise.

For the past four weeks, he'd had opportunity after opportunity to prove that he was better than men like CT-7567. And he considered that he'd done a good job of keeping even. In fact, he could even say he surpassed him in at least one area: non-computer-assisted navigation. It was well-known to all the trainees that this was a difficult subject for 7567; and yet none of them held that against him. In fact, they were all vocal in their support and desire to help him in whatever way they could. Even curmudgeons like CT-3636 had seemingly been won over—to a degree, at least—by CT-7567's charm and buoyancy.

A hero to everyone.

Sure, that's how CT-7567 saw himself; and that's how everyone else saw him.

But CT-5052 would not be fooled. Not again. He'd believed in the insolubility of brotherhood once; but no longer. That trust was gone, and he had no desire to regain it. Now, all was business, and that business was war. A man did what was necessary to accomplish the mission. There was no room for friendships, brotherhood, or the bonds of fighting men.

As he stood on the platform of the first tree, watching CT-7567 cross the rope bridge on Echo's course, he believed that his squad still had a good chance of finishing first. They were only seconds behind, and with CT-7567's reckless desire to win at all costs, combined with the inherent dangers of the aerial course, even the slightest mistake might slow them down enough for Crimson to take the lead.

And they should not need to throw caution to the wind to do it.

His own squad began to move out onto the rope bridge that led to the netted platform. They wasted no time in setting out across the suspended stones, which led to a path of suspended logs—at least twenty of them, each one meter from the next. They were moving quickly and smoothly through the obstacles, and CT-5052 estimated they must have traversed almost 450 horizontal meters in the treetops, not to mention the 20-30 meter ascents and descents between and within obstacles.

"What is that? Is that smoke?" This came from CT-1944 who directly ahead of 5052 and had just reached a narrow trunk platform. He was looking ahead at a growing haziness in the woods that reached all the way up to the high branches.

"It looks like it," 5052 replied.

From above, the voice of one of the spotters ordered, "Keep going. That's part of the course."

"What? The smoke? We're going through the smoke?"

"You got it," the spotter replied. "Get moving."

CT-5052 glanced to his left. Echo Squad was pressing ahead as if the smoke were no deterrent at all.

"Okay, let's move ahead," 5052 said. "Just be cautious. Who knows what we might run into in that smoke."

* * *

Right away, CT-7567 could tell it was a vapor-based smoke. There was no smell, no irritation of eyes or mouth or lungs. It was simply meant to obscure the route, and at that it was quite effective. Five meters into the smoke, 7567 could not see beyond one meter. Every move was made through touch, a lot of reaching out through thin air in every direction, trying to find the next handhold.

"This is crazy," CT-9090 groused. "How are we supposed to know if we're going the right direction?"

"Well, if it feels like chain or rope or something man-made, that's probably the right direction," 390 replied.

Leading the way now, CT-7567 called out his every move to the man behind him.

"There's just a single rope here, so use a hanging ankle cross." "There's a wood platform at the top." "This is . . . a regular suspension bridge. The walkway is like rungs on a ladder, so watch your step and hang onto the sides." "Last step. Looks like we have another rope ladder up this tree."

The step-by-step account was then passed on from man-to-man. And in this way, they passed through the smoke until it began to thin out. When he reached a point where he could see at least three meters ahead, CT-7567 allowed himself a satisfied grin.

" _Got through that with no problem."_

Directly ahead of him were two ropes, one roughly two meters above the other. This was easy enough. Walk on the lower one and hold onto the upper one for balance. Even though the smoke had thinned, he could not see how far this obstacle stretched or what was on the other side. What he could see, however, was a rope net—a safety net below them. He turned and looked back, seeing it stretch away several meters into the smoke from which they were slowly emerging. He smiled. There had never been any real danger. That whole way through the smoke, they'd been undergirded by a safety net.

" _Pretty clever."_

He also noted that the net reached away into the smoke to his right, towards the parallel lane. It occurred to him that the lanes must be very close to one another at this point, probably with the purpose of making it easier for the spotters to keep track of them in this difficult part of the course. CT-7567 imagined the spotters must be using infrared goggles in order to see the trainees.

He turned to CT-5576. "Safety net below us."

"Yeah, I see. Makes me feel a bit better."

"You think it reaches all the way over to the other lane?" 7567 asked.

Here, CT-2025, who had just come to the platform, spoke up. "Doesn't matter if it does. Let's just keep going."

"It might be nice to pay a visit—"

"No, no, no, no, no, no," 2025 protested vigorously. "It will be nice to finish ahead of them. They're not even out of the smoke yet. We need to keep going." He could see CT-7567 was about to protest, so he raised his voice and made the best threat he could think of. "By the Force, _Blondie_ , if you go over there . . . " He didn't have to say anything more. The threat was in the use of the hated nickname.

"Aghh! Don't call me that!" CT-7567 cried. "Did Cody tell you to use that name?"

"Only under dire circumstances," 2025 said with a sly grin. "But believe me, the rest of us will be happy to call you that every day for the rest of ARC training."

CT-7567 glanced at the faces around him – those he could see through the swirling smoke. To a man, they were all on the verge of laughter, and he knew he'd been bested.

"Fine, fine," he conceded. "Anything but that." He turned and muttered under his breath, "I'm going to kill Cody." He started across the rope obstacle.

Back on the platform, Shinie 8448 turned to Shinie 8462 and in a low voice said, "We should just call him 'King'."

From out on the ropes, 7567 shot back, "I heard that!" A pause. "And I like it."

* * *

CT-5052 emerged from the smoke. Fifty meters ahead was the trunk-mounted platform, and even though he did not know for sure, he felt it must be the end of the aerial portion. The safety net no longer was present in this open space, but that was of no matter. He'd not known it was there through most of the smoke, and so he did not miss it now.

He was more interested in what lay ahead. He noticed that both lanes converged at the platform, which meant that whoever got there first would have the priority moving out.

To his left, CT-7567 led the way for Echo Squad; but he was only about a quarter of the way across.

CT-5052 quickened his pace.

And then, just as on the water obstacle, chaos exploded around them. Ground-fired detonator caps filled with fine sand debris rocketed up to burst on all sides. The concussions were enough to not only sway the ropes, but to knock a man's feet out from under him.

And that's precisely what happened to CT-7567. Between the shock of the first explosion and before he could recover himself, a second closer explosion caused him to lose his footing. He hung onto the overhead rope for all he was worth, and for several seemingly endless seconds, he dangled and flailed in midair as he tried to regain the rope beneath his feet. He could feel the violent jerking of both ropes, and he knew that his squad mates behind him were facing the same thing he was.

As soon as he was able, he began moving again, trying to ignore the bedlam around him. Only twenty meters to go. Fifteen meters . . . ten . . .

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure edging up on him; and although he should have kept his concentration forward, he took a split second to steal a glance to his right.

CT-5052.

No. Not only no, but hell no.

 _Fwaaaa-poom!_

The sound of an explosion behind him preceded the sudden jerking and bouncing of both ropes. The top rope recoiled with such force that it was ripped right out of his hands. For one precarious second, he stood teetering on one foot on the lower rope as it jostled and swayed. Then, he began to fall. He was so close to the platform . . .

. . . if he could just reach it.

He tried to get some push against the rope, and it did give him an extra meter or two of distance. But it wasn't going to be enough to catch the platform. However, it was enough to snag the bottom rope in the other lane. Stretching his full length, he managed to get the fingers of one hand around the rope. And, in doing so, he jounced the rope before his fingers slipped lose and he was once again falling.

CT-5052, only two meters from the platform, clutched at the overhead rope and went hand-over-hand the rest of the way until he was safely to the end. When he turned, what he saw almost made him a candidate for spontaneous combustion. CT-1944, who'd been right behind him, was wrapped around the lower rope, and with one straining arm, was holding onto CT-7567. Just below him, hovering at a cautionary but ready distance, was one of the spotter team outfitted with a jetpack.

"What the hell are you doing?!" 5052 shouted. "Let him go! Let him go!"

"Echo Squad will be—disqualified!" 1944 grunted. "We—we _all_ need to finish! _All of us_!"

"Are you crazy?! He's the reason this happened! He jounced the line—"

"Get out of my way!" This was CT-2025, elbowing 5052 aside on the platform and climbing out onto Crimson's rope. He dropped into a belly crawl, made his way out to 7567 and 1944; and reaching down, helped pull his squad mate back onto the rope.

As soon as the two Echo Squad members made it back to the platform, CT-5052 made to head back to help his own teammate; but he was overtaken by Echo's CT-1550, who with the help of another Crimson Squad member, got 1944 safely to the platform.

But not before a fair row had taken place, for no sooner had CT-7567 and CT-2025 made it back to the platform than CT-5052 launched into his tirade.

"Fek and all!" He grabbed 7567 by the collar and slammed his back against the trunk. "What the hell makes you think you can get away with something like that?!"

"I didn't do it on purpose!" 7567 shot back.

"That's a load of osik! You jounced our rope, hoping we'd fall—"

"You're crazy," 7567 scowled.

"You think so? How's this, then?!" With that, he sprang to the edge of the platform where members of both squads were still crossing, and with his full weight, bounced the rope carrying Echo Squad.

"What the—" 7567 had his hands outstretched, ready to go to blows right there on the platform, but seemingly out of nowhere, a spotter appeared between the two warring clones.

"Unless you both want to see both squads disqualified, you'll put the dampers on it, gentlemen," he warned. "Both of you . . . zip line to the bottom and wait for your squads. You still have the last third of the course to go. Not another word to each other, and no stupid stuff when you get to the bottom. A spotter will be there to make sure you two behave yourselves."

The two men made their grumbling, sour way around to the other side of the platform where a bank of six zip lines awaited.

"You might fool them, but you don't fool me," 5052 said in a low, protected voice, despite the spotter's order that they should not speak to each other.

"What are you talking about? I told you it was an accident—"

"My ass. You'll find a way to win at any cost—"

"We were already beating you. Why would I need to play dirty?"

"You just want to show yourself to be the hero, leading your squad to victory," 5052 hissed. "Well, you almost got us both disqualified. And our squads, too." He hooked into the harness and flipped the locking mechanism.

"I told you, I didn't do it on purpose."

"Well, I don't believe you—"

"Believe this." With that, CT-7567 put his foot squarely in 5052's back and shoved him off the platform. And as his adversary slid, discombobulated and spinning, down the line, he added with false pleasantness, "Have a nice ride."

* * *

Echo Squad crossed the finish line.

A split-second ahead of Crimson Squad.

Immediately, CT-7567 doubled over with his hands on his knees. He was too winded to mount any kind of celebration. A few seconds later, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and a familiar voice met his ears.

"That was a close race."

Ah yes, that inflection . . .

Cody.

CT-7567 nodded through his panting.

"I'm surprised," Cody went on. "I thought you'd have finished way ahead."

Again, he was met with a nod.

"You need some water or something?"

Here, 7567 managed to catch his breath long enough to look up and with a superior grin, gasp out, "Or something . . . and I—I believe . . . .whew! I believe Crimson Squad is paying!"

Nearby, CT-8448 piped up through his own wheezing. "The king has spoken!"

CT-8462 rejoined, "Long live the king!"

Cody smiled. "The king?"

"If you call me B-Blondie here . . . in front . . . of them, I'll knock your . . . your block off," came the half-snarling answer. CT-7567 forced himself to straighten up. "And . . . speaking of—of _Blondie_ , you and I need to have . . . a little talk, Commander."

*The line "bled inside each other's wounds" comes from "Lay it Down (Candle in the Rain)" by Melanie in the 1970s. Yeah, kind of hippy-ish, but I think it's a great way to express how deeply entwined people can be.


	69. Chapter 68

_**Dear Reader, Many thanks to Ms CT-782, The Unnamed Guest, Sued13, MilanWinters, and Jinjaneko for your reviews! Much appreciated! Well, this chapter is fairly long and fairly silly, but it does give Rex his name. A number of you already had a pretty good idea when I mentioned "King" where it was coming from. Okay, so Latin isn't in the SW universe, but hey with names like Luke, Han, Leia, and Lars, I kind of figured, I could create a parallel language in which Rex has the same meaning as in Latin! I originally had this as two chapters, but it was just too long, so the next chapter will be coming soon, and everything goes to hell in a hand-basket! Enjoy! CS**_

 _ **CT-7567: Rex**_ _ **Commander Cody**_ _ **Commander Wolffe  
CT-5869: LT Stone  
CT-2025: LT Colt  
CT-5052: LT Bly**_ _ **CT-1004: LT Gree  
CT-9090: OC from Echo Squad  
CT-390: OC from Echo Squad  
CT-8448: OC from Echo Squad  
Captain Snap: OC from Bravo Squad**_

Chapter 68 Vite Diu Rex

" _One day the trees went out to anoint a king for themselves. They said to the olive tree, 'Be our king.' But the olive tree answered, 'Should I give up my oil, by which both gods and humans are honored, to hold sway over the trees?' Next, the trees said to the fig tree, 'Come and be our king.' But the fig tree replied, 'Should I give up my fruit, so good and sweet, to hold sway over the trees?' Then the trees said to the vine, 'Come and be our king.' But the vine answered, 'Should I give up my wine, which cheers both gods and humans, to hold sway over the trees?' Finally all the trees said to the thorn bush, 'Come and be our king.' The thorn bush said to the trees, 'If you really want to anoint me king over you, come and take refuge in my shade."_

 _Judges 10-14, The Bible_

* * *

"One thing's for sure. He hates my guts. But that's fine. It's not worth getting worked up over," CT-7567 shrugged with affected indifference, but this act did not fool Cody. The commander knew that his roommate would scoff at even the slightest intimation that he might be bothered by CT-5052's loathing, and so he tried to maneuver the conversation to a place where they could discuss it without 7567 casting asides.

"Well, if he thinks you tried to jounce the line on purpose—"

"No, no, it started way before now. It started on the very first day."

The two men were on their way back from the obstacle course with a ten minute window to be ready for the next activity, which was a four-hour block on "Tactical Combat in a Zero Gravity Environment" – a class which both men were looking forward to.

"Not that it matters," the lieutenant went on. "I'm not particularly fond of him, either; but it's disappointing between brothers, you know?"

Cody gave a knowing grin. "You act as if, because we're all made from the same genetic material, we should all get along without any conflict."

"We should."

"Good grief, now even I know that's ridiculous," Cody chastised.

"Maybe."

"You're the last person I would have expected to see the universe through the lens of idealism," Cody prodded.

"That's good," 7567 replied. "That means I can still keep you guessing." A sidelong grin. "And with this liberty supposedly coming up in four days, that element of surprise could prove fun."

"That almost sounds like a threat."

"Only you could think of fun as threatening."

Cody narrowed his eyes. "It's not the idea of fun that's threatening; it's _your_ idea of fun that has me worried."

But he did not sound worried.

Not at all. In fact, he sounded eager.

Four days would tell.

* * *

"Wow, you clean up pretty nicely in your Class A's," CT-5869 observed with outsized approbation. "I'll bet you don't get to wear those very often."

CT-7567 simpered. "Thankfully. I feel like a stuffed suit."

CT-1004 piped up, "I like mine. I think I look damned good in it, too."

"You look like a commercial luxury starliner pilot," Commander Wolffe scoffed.

"Fine with me," 1004 replied. "As long as I look like a lady killer."

"Uh, you don't even know what the ladies on this planet look like," Wolffe pointed out. "Don't you think it's a good idea to cool your burners until after you see if the local female populace is even human?"

"What, do you think I'm looking for a wife?" 1004 rejoined. "If she can dance with me, I don't care what she looks like."

"Famous last words," Captain Snap grinned, then with an air of impatience. "When is this crate going to take off? How many more men are we waiting for?"

"Well, I know CT-2025 is supposed to be in this group," CT-9090 stated.

Cody glanced at CT-7567 and read the unspoken message written across his face, for CT-2025's roommate was CT-5052. There was no question that 7567 had little desire to include 5052 in the knot of brothers with whom he was planning to pass the night's activities; but it was equally clear that he would not speak out against his inclusion, if, in fact, he showed up with CT-2025.

Which is precisely what happened.

Within five minutes of the shuttle's scheduled departure time, both CT-2025 and CT-5052 entered the hangar in a hurry.

"It's about time," 7567 greeted his squad mate. "I thought we were going to end up leaving without you."

"Well, we made it, so let's get this bucket moving," 2025 replied cheerfully. He sat down on the jump seat next to 7567 and lowered his voice as 5052 sat several seats down. "5052 wasn't going to come. I had a hell of a time convincing him to."

"I wouldn't have bothered," 7567 replied.

"I know _you_ wouldn't have, but he's my roommate and I wanted him to come," 2025 said with no reservation. "He and I get along great, and whatever it is he's got under his skin, I want to see what I can do to help."

"You could keep him away from me for starters," 7567 replied. "I seem to be the focus for his hatred."

"He's pretty curt and biting with everyone," 2025 said. "But I agree, you seem to be the lightning rod for his . . . ill temper."

"And so you decide to bring him out on our night on the town," 7567 ribbed. "Thanks a lot."

"He's not a bad guy," 2025 insisted. "There's something there, yes, but I'm not quite sure what it is yet. He doesn't talk about the past. I know he was on Ryloth during the evacuations. More than that, he keeps to himself."

"Whatever happened on Ryloth, I don't see why it should make him hate me," 7567 humphed. "I wasn't on Ryloth."

CT-2025 shook his head. He had no answer. But he was determined to keep the peace.

"I don't know why he feels the way he does about you," he admitted. "But you will try to be agreeable, right? You won't provoke him?"

"Why are you saying that to me? You should be saying it to him."

"I already have. Now, I'm saying it to you. You value brotherhood above everything else; show yourself to be the best kind of brother."

CT-7567 groaned. "You're starting to sound like Commander Cody."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

* * *

If Commander Wolffe had been an alarmist over the possible dearth of attractive females, he had worried needlessly.

The fair-sized city into which he and nineteen of his brothers had been deposited was teeming with women of all shapes and sizes, numerous species—many of them humanoid—clearly used to the presence of clones and none too shy about expressing their . . . admiration.

Myotta was not a densely inhabited planet. In fact, it boasted only a few population centers, and even these were quite modest by Coruscant standards. The indigenous population was humanoid and in most respects, very similar to humans. The non-natives were abundant, given that Myotta sat on a heavily travelled space lane between the core systems and the outer rim. Travelers needed to be tended – in any number of ways. In the major space ports, there was a thriving hospitality industry that catered to the travelers. Lastly, there was a smaller population that consisted of those who had come to Myotta in support of the Republic's military activities on the planet. These people tended to be clustered around the military installations, but they often made their way into the cities for recreation and diversion.

As the trainees now walked through the streets, taking in their surroundings, they also took in the sea swell of alien beauties.

"I've never seen so many _gempas_ in one place," 1004 observed with enthusiasm.

"Well, you call them _gempas_ and see what that gets you," Cody warned.

"It's a compliment," 1004 insisted.

"And I'm sure some will take it that way," Cody replied. "Others might just knock your lights out. Besides, we don't want to take any chances on insulting anyone and making a bad showing of the Republic Forces."

"Understood, Commander," 1004 conceded with feigned disappointment.

Cody clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm sure your overwhelming charm will be enough to win them over."

They continued walking past the bright lights, hearing the music coming from within, observing the passers-by. It was still relatively early in the evening, and the nightlife was just coming alive.

But for Cody and CT-7567, the first order of business was dinner. They had purposefully skipped the evening meal with the intent of indulging non-chow hall sustenance. And now they were on the lookout for some fine cuisine.

Other members of their group were ready to head straight for the bars and nightclubs.

As they all prepared to go their separate ways, Cody exercised his position as the senior ranking commander to remind them of some rules. "No over-indulging, gentlemen. In any respect. You're representing the Grand Army of the Republic. If you get in trouble, you'll be kicked right out of ARC training, and we've all come too far to throw it away for a stupid mistake. And don't miss pickup time. Be at the port at 0500. If you want to call it an early night, make it an early night at the port bunkhouse. No overnighting in any of the city's hotels."

There was a general murmur of agreement, and then the group dispersed.

With Cody and CT-7567 were Wolffe, Snap, and CT-5869 – all on the mission to find a fine-dining experience. They settled on an eating establishment that catered to the human palate, and here they passed nearly two hours in a leisurely repast.

Since Tinderhout, CT-7567 and Commander Wolffe had come to a mutual, if not warm, respect for each other; and so they were able to sit at the same table without any of the contention that had marked their previous interactions. On the other hand, the relationship between Wolffe and CT-5968 had not progressed from where it had stood on the first day and the commander's disdain for the latter's position as a member of the Coruscant Guard. The fact that they had ended up in the same group at this early point in the evening necessitated that they both treat the other with, at the very least, cordiality; for they both knew that Commander Cody would not tolerate any foolishness, and despite the fact that both Wolffe and Cody were commanders, the latter's status as the senior commander was indisputable.

"Two weeks left, boys," CT-7567 said, piling onto his plate a heaping spoon of some sort of stew from a communal bowl set in the middle of the table. "And then it's back to the real world."

"It's gone by fast," Captain Snap stated. "And, you know, I'm surprised that no one from our class has washed out. By this time, they've usually lost twenty to thirty percent of the trainees."

"I imagine it's because we're the first class to come through with a significant amount of experience in the field," Cody opined. "We've seen the war firsthand. And a lot of it."

"It's only been four months since the war started," Wolffe pointed out.

"And it feels like enough for a lifetime," CT-5869 said.

"I like it," 7567 stated, then seeing the dumbfounded expressions directed back at him, he clarified. "The training, that is. It's a lot more fun than I thought it would be. And there's been some useful stuff."

"You sound like you didn't want to come here to begin with," Snap said in a manner of query.

"Well, it's a little more complicated than that," 7567 replied. "I wanted to become an ARC trooper, but I had a lot of . . . reservations about leaving my unit. It was my commander who put me in for consideration."

"You do realize you may not be going back to the same unit," Wolffe put forth.

"Oh, I realize it," came the assured response. "The commander and I were just talking about this not too long ago. My goal is a position in the 501st." A pause. "But I don't like the idea of leaving my batchers behind."

Cody grinned. "Not only that, but he's not interested in any position unless it's battalion first-in-command."

"Isn't that position already taken?" 5869 asked.

"It is . . . and by a very capable officer," Cody replied. He looked at his roommate and teased, "You might qualify to be the man who shines his armor."

CT-7567 shook his head with a soft laugh. "You know, you could pull some strings and get me in there."

"I don't have that much power." Cody looked to the others. "What about the rest of you? What assignments are you hoping to get?"

Commander Wolffe spoke up immediately and with surety. "I don't want to be reassigned. General Plo Koon is my Jedi. I don't think I'd be happy working for any other. I'm just hoping to get out of the tactician's job and into a field command."

CT-5869 was more circumspect in his answer. "I'd be happy to move up in the echelons of the CG. I'm not looking for a field command. I'm good at what I do right now."

"What about you, Snap?"

"I want to get assigned to one of the ARC battalions," he replied. "Go from unit to unit as a special advisor and trouble-shooter, solving problems where I'm needed." A pause. "What about you, Commander Cody? I don't think General Kenobi would ever let you go to another unit."

"Which is good, because I have no desire to go to any other unit," Cody stated. "But we all have our duty, and we're called to fulfill it, no matter where it sends us."

"Very philosophical," 7567 ribbed.

Cody turned a droll eye on him. "As if you would know philosophy."

* * *

"Look, there's the lieutenant. And Commander Cody." CT-9090 had been watching the steady flow of people coming through the entrance on the far side of the room, across the expanse of a large dance floor that was surrounded by tables on three sides and a stage on the fourth, upon which a 20-piece band was playing a sort of music 9090 had never heard before, but which he was coming to like very much. Beyond the tables framing the dance floor the room spread out into three slightly elevated and very large restaurant-lounge wings, with stunningly appointed bars built into each one. It was ordered in such a manner that every table, no matter how far away, still had a view of the stage and the dance floor.

And nearly every table and every chair at the bar was full.

"That looks like Commander Wolffe with them. And CT-5869 and Captain Snap," CT-8448 noted. "I'll go over and get them. See if you can find a few more chairs."

Just inside the entrance, Captain Snap took in the full house. "I wonder if we needed a reservation. This place is filled to the rafters."

"No wonder," Cody remarked. "It's beautiful. This, gentlemen, is the difference between a bar and a nightclub."

"Well, considering what we had to pay just to get in the door, it should be a step up from the lower levels of Coruscant," Wolffe growled. "A hundred steps up."

CT-5869 spoke up, and his voice was tinged with disbelieving mirth. "Is that 1004 out on the dance floor?"

Sure enough, it was. He was hard to miss, with his red double-striped coif. But even without the signature hair style, he would have been hard to miss anyway; for he was dancing with the sort of gusto and abandon that only a man as unself-conscious as he was could bring.

The music – an up-tempo instrumental number with a swingy feel to it – was clearly geared towards a certain style of dance, in which most of the patrons were engaging. CT-1004, however, had his own ideas of how to move to the beat, to the swells and riffs; and his enthusiasm was so engaging that it mattered little if his style was somewhat of a mismatch. Little matter indeed, for he was dancing with an undeniably gorgeous woman who appeared to be thrilled with him.

"He wasn't kidding about being a lady-killer," Captain Snap chirped with a smile. "That's some beautiful woman he's dancing with."

"If you call that dancing," Wolffe sniffed. "He looks like a Banokin Bush Monkey doing a mating dance."

"He looks like he's having fun," 5869 offered.

"He looks like an idiot." At this comment from Wolffe, Cody put a friendly hand on his fellow commander's shoulder. "Well, then, I'm sure at some point in the evening, you'll get your chance to show him – and the rest of us – how it's done."

"Hmph! Dancing is an activity that serves no purpose."

CT-7567 could not help but smile at the commander's enduring criticisms. "Still the voice of optimism and cheer."

Wolffe cast him an accusing eye. "Shut up," he grumped, but with a slight inflection of humor underpinning the demand.

"Hey, that's 8448," Captain Snap announced.

They moved forward to meet him.

"We've got a couple tables on the other side, over there, if you want to join us," 8448 announced.

As they walked around the dance floor, Cody inquired, "How many of you are here?"

"There's ten of us up front," 8448 replied. "I don't know if there's anyone else in the further back areas."

"Have you been here the whole time?"

"We checked out a couple places, and this one looked the most respectable," 8448 grinned.

"Respectable? It's stunning," Cody stated. "Seems like a high-end place." He smiled. "I'm surprised they let grunts like us in here."

"Well, we all look pretty impressive in our Class As," 8448 replied. "If they only knew the truth."

As they approached the tables, a chorus of greetings rose up. At least half the men were from Echo Squad, and as their squad mate approached, they tossed out calls of "The king has arrived!" and "Your majesty!"

CT-7567, rather than feeling any embarrassment, beamed with pleasure.

CT-5869 leaned in and quipped in Cody's ear, "You know he's loving every second of this."

"No doubt about it," Cody grinned. "Vive diu rex."

CT-5869 looked askance at him. "What?"

"Long live the king," Cody replied.

"What language is that?"

"Latix Basic. It's a ceremonial language used on Quanar Four," came the reply. "The 212th spent a few weeks there at the start of the war attempting diplomatic negotiations to use the planet as a staging area for the outer rim. The planetary leader was King Sulcat. Or, as the Quana would say, 'Se-Sulcat Rex.' Rex is their word for king."

CT-5869 nodded. "Well, he certainly acts like a king."

Cody chuckled. "He does, at that. And I'd say he has his share of devoted supporters."

"You can count me among them," 5869 stated. "He's a great officer."

"I agree."

"And _Rex_ has a nice ring to it."

"Oh, he'd definitely prefer it to Blondie." Cody smiled at his thoughts. "Though King would probably suit him just fine."

"Rex is better."

"Then let's make it stick."

At that moment, CT-7567's voice cut across the others in incredulous shock. "That's 5052 out there! No, I don't believe it. He's dancing. _Dancing!_ I must be hallucinating."

"He's been dancing all night," CT-9090 pointed out. "And he's pretty good at it."

"He actually looks happy," 7567 blurted out, at which Cody placed a delicate elbow in his side to indicate a degree of discretion was appropriate.

The lieutenant took the hint.

"You gonna get out there?" CT-5869 asked him.

CT-7567 made a face as if the very idea was ridiculous.

"I'm just asking," 5869 said with contrived sheepishness.

"What about you? Maybe I'll go out there after you've shown me you can do it," 7567 prompted.

It was not a very smart thing for him to do.

"That sounds like a challenge. I know you like to make bets, so—"

The lieutenant shook his head with a laugh. "I already almost lost my shirt in the bet with Crimson Squad. I hardly need to skim the surface again. I can't afford to lose a bet—"

"But we're not betting credits in this one," 5869 persisted. "If I get out there, you'll get out there, too."

In an attempt to deflect, 7567 joked, "I'm not dancing with you."

"Nice try, Brother. I don't care who you dance with, as long as you stay out there for one song."

"Why do I feel like I've lost this bet before I've even made it?" 7567 wondered aloud as he shook hands on it.

Cody crossed his arms over his chest. "Maybe because this guy is a member of the Coruscant Guard and has probably been to more balls than you'll ever see in your whole life."

CT-7567 was dumbfounded. And amazed at his own shortsightedness. How could that fact have not occurred to him? He knew 5869 was in the CG. The idea that he had likely pulled duty at many a social function only stood to reason.

And 7567 completely overlooked that. He opened his mouth to attempt a withdrawal of the challenge, but CT-5869 shook his head with a smile.

"I'll at least let you get a drink or two in you before I win this bet and demand payment," 5869 said with great self-satisfaction before turning to find a seat at the table.

CT-7567 sighed as he turned to face Cody. "How did I let him trick me into this?"

"He works with diplomats," Cody replied. "I think he has all kinds of ways to get people to do what he wants without them realizing it."

* * *

Within five minutes of entering the club, CT-7567 came to several realizations.

The first was that he and his brothers were apparently a hot commodity. The great clone army was well-received on Myotta – or in this city, at least. The club's staff served them eagerly and with great attentiveness. Its patrons were friendly and welcoming. And the women were enchanted with them. A clone would not have to sit out a single dance unless he so desired, so numerous were the offers.

The second was that, in some strange and puzzling way, his brothers were more at ease in this setting than he was. They socialized easily. It was clear that they knew better than he did how to relax, and they were clearly intent on enjoying their night out. On the other hand, he himself was not completely without the means to take pleasure in such an evening. Yes, his uncompromising vigilance might make him scan the room for possible trouble spots, accessible egresses, and any means of self-defense; but he was also perfectly capable of noticing the many attractive women, appreciating the taste of the local spirits, and finding much humor—and even admiration—in his brothers' dancing skills.

Which led to the third realization: the fact that Commander Cody was a very skilled dancer and an even more accomplished N _ajete Moulu_ , Mando'a for _Burrow Fox_ , a predator known for its ability to charm its way into the prey's den. Not that Cody was in any way predatory in that sense; the allegory came only from the Moulu's undeniable ability to gain acceptance through a certain amorphous allure.

That was Cody inside and out, as far as his presence in the club went. He'd sat down at table, consumed maybe two sips of the locally named _Fire Water_ , and then, without a word, rose from his seat, headed over to a table of very beautiful women, and a moment later, was on the dance floor, dropping the jaws of his fellow trainees.

Cody was superb. Fluid and elegant, he moved with a grace not normally associated with any member of the clone army. He had perfected the agreeable smile and a somewhat coarse version of the refined sophisticated demeanor of the non-clone officer class. He was courteous and just suave enough to linger on the edge of flirtation, yet without ever crossing the line into outright seduction.

CT-7567 was impressed, and now he was more sure than ever that a Jedi must, in fact, rub off on his clone officer. He could easily imagine—without ever having met General Kenobi—that this must be an almost perfect reflection of the Jedi Master's character and persuasive talent.

Of course, there were other cases that seemed to throw that theory into tailspins.

Case in point: CT-1004.

True, he might only be a lieutenant, but his unit—the 7068th Military Police—was a part of the very prestigious 41st Elite Corps, commanded by Jedi General Luminara Unduli. Perhaps it was the intervention of several echelons between 1004 and General Unduli that had explained the reason the clone officer was nothing like the Jedi Master; for General Unduli had a reputation for being very strict, very focused, and quite humorless. CT-1004 on the other hand . . . well, there were hardly words to describe his level of excitement. It was as if a joyful concupiscence followed him wherever he went, driving him to push the limits of fun and inhibition. Yet, he was extremely devoted, and as a soldier, unabashedly aligned with the proper observance of rules.

But there were no rules on the dance floor, and CT-1004 was absolutely determined to make a spectacle of himself, so it seemed. But he was a pleasing spectacle, and no one could find fault with him.

As he made his way back to the table, one lovely already on his arm, and two more joining along the way, there was no mistaking that he was, in fact, every bit the ladies' man he had envisioned himself to be. Seeing his former pod-mate, his smile grew even wider.

"Your Highness, I'm glad you decided to join us," he beamed, finding a seat as his harem arrayed themselves in the chairs around him. It was almost obscene how they hovered, but 1004 did not appear to mind in the least.

CT-7567 gave a dry grin. "Is everyone calling me that now?"

"Your squad mates have been using it all night," 1004 replied. "It's perfect, don't you think? Come on, you've always acted like a king. You're always in charge wherever you go—"

"Even when he's _not_ in charge, he's in charge," CT-390 teased.

"That's a good thing," 1004 went on. "It's who you've always been, since we were batch-kits. You like to take the lead. You like power. Nothing wrong with that." He chuckled. "You make a good king."

"King Rex." This came from CT-5869. "Or, better yet, since Rex means king . . . just Rex."

Cody, who had just returned from the dance floor, nodded approvingly. "There couldn't be a better fit."

CT-7567 rather liked the sound of that, but to show too ready an agreement would not be in line with his character. After all, as a king, he would certainly not allow anyone to dictate to him what his name should be.

"Hold on a minute, how do you get Rex from King?" he demanded.

"Latix," Cody replied. "The ceremonial language of Quanar Four. Rex means king. And Lieutenant King just doesn't sound good. Lieutenant Rex does."

CT-7567 considered for a long moment.

"Or maybe you'd prefer if we stuck with Blondie?" CT-2025 put forth.

"Or King Blondie?" This from 5869.

"Fek and all, no." It was one of the few times 7567 had ever uttered a swear word. But then an accepting smile crept slowly into his features. "Rex sounds pretty good. Yes . . . yes, I think I like that."

"Good," Cody said with a stout nod. "But, uh, just make sure you stay on my good side, because I still have Blondie tucked away where I can make use of it any time I want." He swung an arm over his roommate's shoulders. "And you know I can pull a crowd."

CT-7567—Rex—looked sidelong at him; and judging from his expression, he decided that idle threats might not be Cody's specialty, but he could throw one when the moment was suitable. He replied with a close approximation of sweetness. "I won't tempt you."

"See to it you don't."

* * *

"Look, we've got to head for the port in less than an hour, and you still haven't done anything but sit here nursing that one drink—"

"This is my second," the newly christened Lieutenant Rex replied. "Stuff is god-awful."

CT-1004 ignored him and continued to press. "How can you sit here with all these beautiful women and not get out there at least once? They've been asking you all night, and you just sit here."

"I'm perfectly happy to leave all the women to you, Brother," Rex said. "If I stood up, you might find yourself suddenly alone."

At this, Commander Wolffe, a couple seats away, let out a great sarcastic guffaw. "Hunh! I think you're glued to that chair because you can't dance _at all_."

Rex gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Would that surprise you? I've never danced in my life."

"Well, neither had I, but I got out there," Wolffe shot back.

"And looked pretty ridiculous, I might add," Rex rejoined.

"At least, I was out there, unlike some blowhards," Wolffe huffed.

The commander continued to make some kind of reply, but Rex was looking down at the far end of the set of strung-together tables, the end where CT-5052 was sitting with a stunner in the next chair who was, for all intents and purposes, practically in 5052's chair. He seemed pleased to have the attentions of such a beautiful woman, although the propriety that reigned over the trainees ensured that he did nothing that would bring dishonor upon the group, and so he indulged her attentions and returned them with polite attention.

The woman was certainly the most beautiful Rex had seen that night.

"Leave him alone—he can't help it if he can't dance." This voice—that of CT-5869, drew his attention back to the conversation. "I mean, so what if he's the best at everything else? That doesn't mean he can feel a beat or keep rhythm. So what if he's the only clone in the entire GAR that can't master a simple swing step. This will just be one more bet he loses—"

CT-2025 joined in. "All those good looks just going to waste. I guess he dyed his hair blonde just for us—"

Rex stood up without a word. He strode down to the end of the tables, making a beeline for CT-5052's companion. The woman, clearly accustomed to being desired for her beauty and perhaps a bit vain about that fact, watched his approach with confidence and was ready to extend her hand in acceptance, when he walked right past her.

The brothers exchanged muted expressions of humor. CT-7567 never made things easy.

He walked up to the table behind them where a cluster of attractive women were seated. They, too, had been dancing most of the night; but they were not quite of the same exquisite beauty as the top-tier sirens that dominated the clubscape and had their pick of the patrons. These women, while easy on the eyes, were average – and as such, they actually seemed to be having a better time than the sultries who were constantly having to check their appearance in every reflective surface and against every other woman in the club.

It was to one of these women that Rex extended his hand mid-song. And as he led her out onto the dance floor without the least bit of self-consciousness, he felt as if every eye in the room was upon them. And perhaps they were.

His fellow clones waited in expectation of a paltry display, a humiliating attempt to prove that he was at least as skilled as his least-skilled brother in the art of dancing. They were ready to offer sardonic smiles, derisive commentary, and general hoot-calling in response to what they were sure was going to be a scene pathetic enough to bring the house down on CT-7567's smugness.

What they got instead left them speechless and awestruck – or deflated, as the case might be.

Rex had no sooner assumed the proper posture than he swept his partner away in a whirling, twirling rush of movement. So blithe was his manner that one would have guessed he'd been dancing his whole life. He went gracefully with the music, leading his partner with ease and a dichotic loose precision.

"Well, I'll be damned," CT-9090 breathed with a hint of disappointment. "He can out-dance us, too?"

"I wonder what it's like to be the best at everything," CT-390 smiled.

Standing nearby, Cody answered the question but quietly and only to CT-5869 at his side. "It's a long fall from perfection."

"Do you think he knows that?" 5869 asked, nodding towards Rex out on the dance floor.

"I'm not sure that he does," Cody replied. "When has he ever lost?"

"He lost to you."

"You might see that as a loss. I might see that as a loss. But 7567—Rex—I get the feeling he sees even his defeats as victories on some level."

"Well, he's a good marker for the rest of us," 5869 decided. "And sort of a—a different marker from you, Commander. You're both like two ends of the same spectrum."

At this, Cody laughed. "I'd hate to know what the ends of that spectrum are."

CT-5869 was not hesitant about answering. "You're the more reasoned, methodical end. The one that plans and weighs outcomes. CT-75—Rex—he's more the call-it-as-I-see-it end, the type that takes action first and worries about the consequences later."

And even though these observations were spoken in a light manner, Cody absorbed their meanings.

" _Too careful versus too wild,"_ he mused, but aloud he opined, "And somewhere in the middle is the good officer."

"Neh," 5869 deferred. "There are a lot of good officers all along the spectrum. I think what you'd find in the middle would be the perfect officer. And we all know that doesn't exist."

Cody cocked his head in dubious concession, then added, "I think we've got something pretty close."

What surprised him most about that admission was that he meant it.

 _ ***Gempa = an animal with a very curvaceous figure**_

 _ ***Vive diu rex = Long Live the King in Latin.**_


	70. Chapter 69

**_Dear Reader, Thank you to my reviewers, Ms CT-782, Christina TM, The Unnamed Guest, and Jinjaneko. Much appreciated. This is a very long chapter (and I even put the last part in the next chapter, because it was just too long!). Okay, full disclosure (and this will sound funny): I was listening to Katy Perry's "Hot and Cold" many years ago and I just liked the idea of "changes mind", "scaredy cat", and "critical." So I consciously adapted those traits to Cody, Bly, and Wolffe through this entire ARC backstory - all in anticipation of this chapter. The entire race has that song playing in the background in my head. Eh, I guess stranger things have happened! I hope you enjoy. CS_**

Chapter 69 One Step Too Far

" _Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go."_

 _T.S. Eliot_

* * *

"You didn't tell anyone you could dance," Cody pointed out on the way back to the port. "You said you'd never done it before."

"That was the truth," Rex replied. "I'd never danced a step before, but come on . . . how difficult could it be? All I had to do was watch the rest of you all night—well, okay, maybe not 1004, but the rest of you—and I was able to pick it up right away."

Cody smirked. "You pick this up right away, but you need an intervention to learn how to manually calculate hyperspace jumps. That doesn't make any sense."

"Predictably unpredictable, remember?" Rex poked.

"Using my own words against me, huh?" the commander grinned. "Well, for a second there, I thought you were going to snatch 5052's, uh, little friend and then the flames would have ignited."

"I wouldn't do something like that," the lieutenant replied. "We may not like each other, but that doesn't mean I want to humiliate him."

"Of course not."

"You don't believe me?"

They entered the port through a pair of giant magnetic doors and headed for the dock where their ship was waiting to take them back to the complex.

"Oh, I believe that what's you believe of yourself," Cody said. "I'm just not sure I believe it of you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I think you believe yourself to be incapable of doing something rotten," Cody explained. "You bend the rules, but you don't mean to cheat, per se. You're relentless against your opponents, but you don't mean to actually hurt or embarrass anyone. You love to show off but never with the intention of belittling someone else's abilities." A pause. "At least, that's how you see yourself."

"You're talking as if you believe I do those things with malicious intent," Rex challenged.

"No, not malicious," Cody corrected. "But I do think you want to win at all costs and in everything you do. Even things that aren't a contest, you turn into one. And you're willing to play dirty to come out on top. Don't even try to deny it. I've seen it in every exercise."

"Well, that mindset has done well by me so far."

"So far, yes." They came to the ship and got onboard. "But if you're not careful, you may end up going one step too far one day."

"And if that happens, I'll deal with it. I have enough of the _Jai'Galaar_ in me to see when trouble's coming, and enough _Ben'ho-er_ that I always land on my feet," Rex replied.

Cody had never met anyone so likably arrogant. "What you _lack_ is the modesty of a _Scinchi Doe."_

"That's because modesty has no place in the life of a clone."

Cody shook his head. "You're impossible."

And yet, he could not stop the image of General Skywalker from parading across his thoughts, and he could almost hear the general saying, "Of course, modesty has no place in the life of a clone!"

Certainly not in the lives of General Skywalker's clones.

* * *

The Tactical Air Navigation System race – or TACAN Snatch, as it was more commonly known – was one of the final large-scale exercises of ARC training, with only Escape and Evasion and Unaided Stellar Navigation to follow.

It involved four squads at a time, racing against each other in an effort to collect TACAN beacons—navigational transmitters meant to aid in aerial and aerospace navigation. Each team had its own separate set of six beacons to collect, and each beacon was accompanied by a clue and calculations to the next beacon. Some beacons were collocated with the other squads' beacons, and if a squad accidently took another team's beacon, they were automatically disqualified and would have to successfully pass a makeup TACAN exercise before graduating.

Of course, each beacon came with its own set of obstacles to overcome, and so it was not simply a matter of which team was the fastest. A lot of skills would be put to the test, not the least of which was the squad leadership.

And as fate—or more accurately, cadre planning—would have it, the leaders for the first race could not have been better matched. Commander Cody would lead Bravo Squad. CT-5052, Crimson Squad. Rex, Echo Squad. And Wolffe, Havoc Squad.

Now, this was going to be one hell of a race; and needless to say, Rex was already devising ways to make sure his own team crossed the finish line first.

The night before the race, he gathered Echo Squad in their assigned planning room.

An image of the first beacon location had been provided, though not the coordinates; and all squads had their first beacon at this location. It was a stone temple, built in a pyramid shape with square-cut rocks the sizes of AT-AT cockpits piled up in a stair-step fashion. There were four ancient landing pads (or at least they were meant to appear ancient), one on each side; and each team had its assigned landing pad. The top of the pyramid had a square opening, roughly two meters across.

"I have a feeling, when we get the schematics tomorrow, that we're going to see that this opening leads right into the heart of the place," Rex surmised. "And it's probably a much quicker route to our goal than going in through the landing pads."

"What do you have in mind?" CT-2025 asked.

"I think we should have a plan to go in from on top," he replied. "We'll make plans to come in from the landing pads, too; but in case I'm right, I want to be ready to come through here. We can fine-tune everything once we see what we've got tomorrow." A pause. "But one thing we can definitely do tonight . . . "

They all raised curious, waiting gazes towards him.

"We can make our gunship go fast."

CT-5576 gave a fatalistic chuckle. "They can only manage so much speed."

Rex turned his eyes to CT-390. "That's where you and me come in. Between the two of us, we have enough know-how to turn a plow horse into a race horse."

"I'm all for it," 390 beamed with anticipation. "But, uh, you do realize we're talking about a gunship here, right? Not a jetpack."

"It's just a bigger version of the same thing," Rex quipped.

CT-390 shook his head and blew out his breath. "Huuu, you have a simple mind."

"I'm a simple man," Rex replied. Then to CT-390 only, "Okay, meet me back here at 1100 hours and we'll get to work. The rest of you will meet back here tomorrow morning at 0500 so we can go over our strategy before breakfast."

The order was acknowledged.

* * *

"Squad leaders! Front and center!" Major Tides shouted.

The four squad leaders all came forward to a marked circle on the tarmac just outside the hangar doors, and beyond that stood the four gunships. But once they got there, they were made to wait as Major Tides conferred with several of the controllers for the exercise. Given that this was not a range but a real-world test, the degree of control and safeguard was significantly higher. One of the controllers seemed to have some concern about weather conditions at one of the locations; another controller was asking for another fifteen minutes before starting in order to switch out a faulty beacon.

As the four squad leaders waited, Commander Wolffe looked with baleful eyes to Rex, whom he still referred to as CT-7567 or by his rank. "It would be nice if you didn't cheat this time around, Lieutenant."

CT-5052 made a scoffing sound, as if the idea of Rex playing by the rules was, in and of itself, an impossibility.

True to form, Rex met the insult with his own non-subtlety.

"Why would I need to cheat? Look what I'm up against." Nodding towards Cody, he said, "You change your mind more than the wind changes direction." To CT-5052, "You're too afraid of failure to take any risks whatsoever." Then, ending with Commander Wolffe, he sneered, "And you're so busy finding fault and criticizing everyone that you don't pay any attention to your own failings."

He had spoken nothing other than the truth—or his estimation of the truth—hoping that his inflection—a sort of challenging, I-dare-you provocation—would generate the very spirit of competition upon which he thrived. He certainly hadn't meant to offend in any serious capacity. No, the whole thing was the kind of braggadocio that any normal male engaged in. Indeed, Cody and Wolffe both seemed to take it that way. CT-5052, on the other hand, merely glared at him then looked away.

Wolffe rolled his eyes. "Should we enumerate your litany of shortcomings?"

Cody grinned. "Imagine what it's like to live with him."

"You have my sympathies."

Major Tides approached.

"So, gentlemen, let's go over the rules." He looked at Rex in the manner of a man who knows he's about to impart a detail of great joy. "There are no rules. You collect your TACAN beacons and the first team back wins."

"No rules?" Rex asked, looking for confirmation that he'd truly heard what he thought he'd heard.

"We expect you to exercise reason, Lieutenant," Tides replied. "Be innovative. Be creative. But don't go crazy."

"Too late," 5052 muttered under his breath.

"Does the squad have to finish as a whole?" Rex asked. "If we lose one or two on the way, will we be disqualified?"

Tides looked at him with a scrutinizing gaze. "Are you planning to sacrifice your men in pursuit of victory?"

"No," came the unabashed response. "But if there really are no rules, I don't want to find out at the end that, in fact, there really _were_ rules. Do we all have to finish?"

"The goal is to get the TACAN beacons to the finish line. Does that answer your question?" Tides asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Then you can bring your squads to the ready line and wait for the start signal."

As they headed back to the hangar where their squads were waiting, Rex slapped Cody on the shoulder. "No hard feelings when you cross the finish line behind me?"

"Not even when I cross it ahead of you," Cody pushed back.

Rex chuckled. "No, seriously. No matter what happens, you won't, uh, you won't hold it against me, right?"

Now the commander's suspicion went up several notches. "What have you got up your sleeve?"

"Just the desire to win. And the means to do so." And then, for a fleeting moment, a strange sincerity came through in his voice. "I want to be the best."

"As do we all."

"But I _have_ to be. That's the only way I'm going to get what I want."

Cody shot him a questioning look, but it was too late. It was time to part ways as they returned to their squads. But before heading for his own ship, Cody warned, "Just don't do anything crazy."

He mightaswell having been talking to the wind.

* * *

The start gun fired its red flare.

The squads bolted across the hanger onto the tarmac and to the waiting gunships.

In Echo Squad, it has been predetermined the night before that Shinie 9218—the best pilot among them—would take the helm. CT-1448 slipped into the seat behind him as co-pilot.

CT-390 and CT-8448—the latter burdened with a cloth-wrapped bundle—went immediately into the drive room (little more than the size of a large closet) in the rear of the ship and set to work uncoupling static dampeners, ion regulators, and balance ratios. They unhooked every bit of propulsion machinery just short of what was necessary to get the big, lumbering bird off the ground.

On the troop deck, CT-9090, CT-8462, and CT-5576 began fixing rappelling lines and harnesses. CT-2025 helped them get kitted up, checking their lines and fastenings.

CT-1550 quickly deciphered the given coordinates and fed them into the navi-computer.

And lastly, Rex stood at the comm panel from where he would direct this brilliant victory.

"Take her up easy, boys," he commanded. "You'll only have partial power until the compressor is installed."

"Roger that, L.T.," 9218 acknowledged, using the slang initials for lieutenant. "Just tell us when we can hit it."

"Oh, you'll know, because your gauges will be off the chart," Rex grinned beneath his helmet.

"The other squads are well off, Sir," CT-1448 added. "Do you think we'll be able to catch up with them?"

It tickled Rex how these Shinies deferred to his rank. He was used to it back in the 729th. It felt good to hear that deference again, even if he could not quite explain why.

"No doubt," he replied. "Just keep them in sight. That's all we need to do for now."

"How long til we make the switch?" CT-2025 asked from the troop deck.

Rex spoke into his helmet comm over the noise of the bay. "390, how much more time?"

"Thirty seconds."

"Good work, Smoke."

 _Smoke?_ Another nickname given on the spur of the moment.

"We'll say it's good work if it doesn't blow us to kingdom come," 8448 quipped, and none of the others were sure if he was joking or not.

Thirty seconds later, Smoke spoke to the cockpit. "Cut engines on my mark."

"Copy."

"Three-two-one, mark!"

The warhorse fell silent except for the sound of the air zipping by outside. Less than three seconds later, Smoke gave a thumbs up.

"Start 'er up!" Rex ordered.

In the dual cockpit above, CT-9218 re-engaged the engines; then both he and CT-1448 let out gasps of surprise.

"Flow through main busses one and two are off the charts!" 1448 exclaimed. "The props numbers are four times higher than normal! It worked! The fekking booster worked!"

Rex allowed himself a self-congratulatory, "I knew it would. Now, let's put it to use. Take her up to fifty percent. That should be enough for us to blow past everyone."

"Accelerating—woah!" As CT-9218 moved the power lever forward ever so slightly, he—and everyone else aboard the gunship—were caught by complete surprise at the abrupt and dramatic increase in speed. Down on the troop deck, the men were tossed into the rear wall.

"Hey! Hey! You have to be easy up there!" Rex shouted through his helmet comm. "You're dealing with a lot more power than usual! Easy does it!"

"Sorry 'bout that, L.T.," 9218 apologized, but everyone could hear the humor in his voice. "I wasn't expecting it to be so sensitive."

"Well, remember it next time."

CT-2025, in the course of picking himself up off the floor, asked bluntly, "Is this gunship designed to handle this kind of speed?"

"I think she can handle it," Rex replied. "Just not over any prolonged period of time. We want to avoid too much stress on the structural integrity."

"And exactly how long is a prolonged period of time?" 2025 pressed.

"Hey, she's a warship, right? She's built to take a beating. Now, stop worrying about that and make sure these guys are ready to drop. We won't have—"

"We're passing the other squads, L.T.," 1448 reported from the rear cockpit.

"Good, keep the pressure on. We need to put as much distance between us and them as possible. ETA to the first beacon?"

"At this speed . . . just over two minutes," 1448 replied.

"Fantastic. Be ready on the CB turrets," Rex instructed, referring to the four composite-beam pinpoint laser turrets that formed one small part of the gunship's impressive offensive weaponry. "9218, I want to do this in one sweep around the perimeter. Nothing fancy, flyboy."

"You got it, Sir!"

Rex turned to the three men in their rappelling gear. "You know where we're going?" It was really a rhetorical question, as he began to step into his own harness with 2025's assistance.

"We studied the schematics inside and out," 5576 replied.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather I go with them and you stay here?" 2025 asked. "You're the squad leader."

"And I'm going to _lead_ them into that temple and find the beacon," Rex said as a confirmation. "Besides, there's going to be a lot of angry brothers coming up right behind us. I need someone shipside just in case any . . . unpleasantness arises."

"Don't you think they might have also considered going in through the top?"

Here, Rex's broad and self-assured smile was almost perceivable although obscured by his bucket. "Those three? Not a chance."

"You sound very confident. Are you sure you're not selling them short?"

"It's not a question of selling them short," Rex replied. "Kripes, Cody will always be the best of the best. I can't hope to out-think him. But the one thing we can do is play to our strengths and exploit their weaknesses. And one of those weaknesses is that not one of them possesses creative thinking."

"Uh, you're saying this about a man who communicates with wolves? That seems pretty creative to me," 2025 challenged.

From the cockpit, CT-1448 announced, "I have a visual on the temple."

"Brace yourselves," 9218 cautioned. "Coming in for my run."

Rex punched the side panel and the doors on one side of the ship slid open. He wanted to see this.

A decent pilot himself, Rex could appreciate the fact that there were many brothers with greater piloting skills than his own. And while he might not have expected to find a Shinie with bragging rights, he certainly was about to find out that CT-9218 had earned his reputation as one of the finest cadet pilots to come out of this last graduating class.

He had absolutely no fear of piloting a ship that had been jerry-rigged to perform well beyond its specifications. His competitive spirit fell in perfect line with his current squad leader, and he was more than happy to push the boundaries in an effort to show what he could do.

He drew the speeding ship into a wide, sweeping banking movement, slowing down and rotating into a circular pattern around the temple's perimeter. He did not need to be told how fast to go or what altitude to maintain. He could sense intuitively what was necessary for his squad leader's plan to work.

"Open fire," Rex commanded with a calm that was in stark contrast to the barrage that followed.

From the rear cockpit, CT-1448 began firing the remote CB lasers from the turrets located in front of the ship, just below the cockpit. A dozen well-aimed shots per platform turned each of the landing pads into rubble. Even if the other squads chose not to land their gunships, they would have a hard time climbing over the debris.

"Beautiful!" Rex complimented his two-man flight crew. "You guys are my heroes! Now, take us up top."

"Copy that." CT-9218 brought the gunship to hover over the opening.

"Now it's our turn," the lieutenant said with gusto. "Let's do this."

* * *

"Commander! Echo Squad just—"

"I see it," Cody grimaced, then, although speaking aloud, he was addressing only himself. "He really does plan to play dirty." A pause. "No rules suits him perfectly."

"Commander, do you want us to land?" This was from CT-8383, by profession a pilot, and now serving as such for this exercise.

"Can you still bring her down safely?" Cody inquired.

"I can't land her on the pads, but I can get low enough for disembarkation," 8383 replied.

"Do it."

"You don't want to go in the top like Echo did?" Captain Snap asked.

"And who's going to push their gunship from its place over that opening? They're guarding that thing like a _Uquilo_ guards its nest. They won't relinquish that position without a fight, and we don't have time for a fight," Cody replied.

"We, uh . . . we could take them out," Snap offered with reluctant curiosity. "They've already shown that they're willing to use weapons to destroy the landing pads. We could disable their ship."

Cody was pragmatic. "Firing on a landing pad is one thing. Firing on a ship with a live crew is something else."

"I'm sure the cadre have fail safes built in," Snap opined. "And we're not trying to hurt them, just to take their ship out of action."

"I'd rather beat them across the finish line," Cody stated.

"That might be hard to do with the way CT-7567 plays," CT-0206 pointed out. "He blew up our landing pad. We've seen that he's got something on board that ship that took them from last place to first place in seconds. He's going to use every trick in the book."

"So, I'd like to beat him fair-and-square," Cody persisted. "We're not going to do anything but run our race. Get ready to disembark."

* * *

"That little prick," Commander Wolffe growled. "I should have known he'd do something like this. He'd cheat his way into heaven, if he could."

"Well, the major did say there were no rules," CT-309 reminded him.

"He certainly did." Wolffe let the words fall ominously into the confined space of the gunship. "Take her down wherever you can find a drop-off spot." He turned to CT-7106 and CT-8713. "Load some spring netting."

The two Shinies went to the equipment locker, and CT-309 asked inquisitively but with a degree of expectation. "Spring netting? Going hunting, Sir?"

Wolffe replied in clipped tones. "Big game hunting."

* * *

"Fekking bastard," CT-5052 cursed. "I knew he was going to pull this kind of osik."

"What do you want to do, Lieutenant?" CT-1080-1 asked.

CT-5052 spoke to CT-1944 in the cockpit. "Find a place to drop us off."

Within seconds, 1944 had them down for disembarkation. CT-5052, as he stood in the doorway and just before jumping down to the ruined pad below, gave a parting command. "Now go up there and destroy the top of the pyramid. They may have gone in that way, but I don't want them coming out that way. Little obstacle in the rat maze."

"Echo's ship is hovering nearby, Lieutenant," 1944 pointed out. "If we blow the top, debris could hit them."

"No rules, remember? If they take a little damage, consider it payback for taking out our landing pad," 5052 replied.

"Roger that."

* * *

"The coordinates take us straight down this shaft about seventy meters," CT-9090 said as he and the rest of the landing team stood at the mouth of a fairly wide opening that led down into blackness. "We've got two rappelling cables. Who do you want to send down?"

CT-7567 replied, "I'll go down with 8462. You two wait here for us."

They fixed cables and fired into the walls for anchoring. It was a quick trip to the bottom. In the light of their headlamps, they made out a series of ancient markings on the walls—although Rex was starting to believe that this entire construct was a replica, meant to look ancient—and all around them, a number of passageways led off into the bowels of the structure.

"We're still above the beacon, L.T.," 8462 stated, looking at his scanner. "I show it being roughly twelve meters below us. We have to find a way to go down."

"Does the schematic show any more shafts leading to the lower levels?"

CT-8462 made some adjustments to the image. "Yes, Sir. There are several. This is the nearest one, here, about a hundred meters this way."

"Then let's go."

As they headed down one of the passageways, Rex allowed his focus for one moment to shift from the task at hand to his own self-congratulatory musings on having chosen CT-8462 for this part of the mission.

CT-8462 was a serious clone, more so than most Shinies—and most Shinies were very serious. He was quiet and reserved. But what Rex had earlier mistaken for timidity, he now recognized as a well-honed ability to listen and observe. 8462 was not one of those men who felt the need to be noticed. He had no interest in standing out—his brown eyes already made him an anomaly among his brothers; he did not care to add to his uniqueness. He only wanted to be useful and contributing in the manner of a good soldier.

In many ways, he reminded Rex of an inexperienced version of Cody. And this made Rex like him very much.

Coming to the shaft, they found it narrow and without a ladder.

"Our cables are back at the other location," Rex said, "But this looks narrow enough that we can wedge down it."

"After you, L.T.," 8462 said with a smile in his voice. "I know you always like to go first."

* * *

CT-9218, following in the style of any good pilot, foreswore the use of any of the automated piloting systems afforded by the gunship. All the brilliant electronic systems manufactured for the Rothana Heavy Engineering shipyards for use in their spacecraft often fell by the wayside when a clone pilot sat in the chair.

Clone pilots were notorious for their self-assuredness when it came to trusting their own skills and wits over those of a computer – even such advanced computers as droids. CT-9218 was no exception. As he waited for the return of his landing team, he entertained himself by trying to keep the gunship in an exact location, hovering over the top of the opening. Anything more than a .01 azimuth variance or a .5 degree rotation shift was unacceptable. Those were the limits for computer-aided flying. And he was a damned sight better than any computer.

"Eighteen." This was CT-1448's shortened version of his pilot's name. "That's Crimson's ship coming up. What are they—holy krebs!"

As he had spoken, the opposing ship had fired off a sustained burst from their forward CB lasers, obliterating the top of the pyramid, sending stone and mud-mortar flying in all directions and tumbling down into the opening.

CT-9218 slammed his hand forward on the repulsor thrust, lifting the ship just enough to avoid the larger pieces of debris. A few small chunks of rock struck the underbelly of the larty—the affectionate name given to the gunships—but no serious damage was done.

"What the hell was that?!" CT-390 shouted into his helmet from the troop deck.

"Crimson just took out the top of the pyramid!" 1448 replied. "Lieutenant, are you hearing this?"

Rex was halfway down the shaft, his back pressed against one wall, his feet bracing against the opposite one. Above him, CT-8462 was roughly a quarter the way down. A violent vibration shook the entire place, dislodging both men and sending them tumbling to the bottom. Rex had not far to fall; and even with CT-8462 landing squarely on top of him, his armor was protection enough that all he really suffered was having the wind knocked out of him for a few seconds.

"What the hell was that?" 8462 shouted at nearly the same time that CT-390 was asking the same question.

And given that all of Echo Squad was on the same frequency, they all heard 1448's answer and subsequent inquiry.

Rex sat up and gulped in a few breaths. "Yes, I'm hearing it. What do you mean, they took out the top of the pyramid?"

"They fired cannons and destroyed it," 1448 replied.

"Is the rest of the squad safe?"

Here, CT-390 replied, "We're okay, L.T."

CT-9090, back at the top of the first shaft, responded, "We took some debris, but we're okay. I'm afraid the shaft above us is completely blocked."

"The ship's taken some very minor damage," CT-9218 added. "But nothing that will slow us down. But you won't be able to come back the way you went in. From what we can see, the whole thing is caved in now."

"Don't worry about us," Rex replied. "We'll find another way out and relay it to you once we get there. In the meantime, keep an eye on Crimson—and the other squads. Looks like I've redefined the meaning of no rules."

"You've certainly set a precedent." This from CT-9090 back at the first shaft. "Do you still want us to wait here?"

"Check your copy of the schematic for exits on your level and any levels between you and the bottom of that shaft. Report back what you find. We're close to the beacon. We're pressing on." A pause. "And CT-9218 . . . if threatened, return fire. Take whatever actions are necessary."

"Roger that."

* * *

At the sound of an explosion, Cody jerked his head around towards the pyramid. Having dropped off his landing team headed by Captain Snap, he had ordered his gunship to set down at the edge of the jungle surrounding the structure.

"What the—" He moved to the open side door and watched the top of the pyramid looking like an erupting volcano. From his vantage point, he could not see Crimson Squad's ship on the other side of the smoldering peak. Immediately, he spoke into his helmet comm. "Snap! Are you alright?"

"We're fine," came the swift reply. "Just felt a bit of a rumble. What was that?"

"The top of the pyramid looks like it's been blown to pieces," Cody replied.

"Well, it didn't have much impact here," Snap reiterated. "Just some ground shaking."

"Either way, we don't know if it was explosives or a trap or something else, so exercise caution," Cody warned. "The whole place could be booby-trapped." Then, to CT-8383. "Let's take her up and get a look at the top."

* * *

Wolffe knew, from his experience with tactics, that a small precision team usually made better time and had greater success with pinpoint missions than larger contingents.

As such, he took only Shinies 7106 and 8713 with him into the pyramid.

He liked Shinies because they tended not to ask questions, not to buck authority, but rather to do as they were ordered with no pushback, no discussion, and no balking. Shinies were always eager to prove their abilities and their worth. Wolffe liked those traits; they were easier to work with than the guys with some experience under their belts – especially the jarhead types that formed that combat branch of General Plo Koon's Division. The very kind of men Wolffe desired so much to be in command of, despite their gruff and unwieldy character. It never struck the commander as ironic that the very troops he wanted to lead were the same troops of whom he had such derisive thoughts. And even more over, it never occurred to him that the reason for his derision was precisely due to his bitterness over not being a part of them, not being a member of that brotherhood of combat arms.

Well, here with these Shinies, he could be in charge in a tactical environment instead of just at the planning table.

Before they had even entered the pyramid, he had plotted the entire route through the pyramid that would lead to their beacon. Should any obstacles arise, he developed alternate routes. He was in no hurry to get inside and find his team like rats in a maze, running all directions blind. He was methodical, and this time, it paid off.

He and his team entered the center chamber of the pyramid and discovered that all four beacons were there. For a fleeting moment, he considered hiding Echo Company's beacon, but he took seriously the major's warning that any squad that tampered or made off with another squad's beacon would be disqualified. Besides, he had his own surprise revenge that awaited Echo Squad.

Taking Havoc's beacon, he handed it to CT-7106. "Get this back to the ship and start decoding the clue to the next beacon. Give me this." He traded his weapon for 7106's net-loaded blaster. "Hurry. I want this whole thing deciphered by the time we get back."

"You got it, Commander."

Wolffe turned to CT-8713. "We're going to hide behind that sarcophagus and wait." He removed his helmet for a breath of unfiltered air, as it somehow made him feel more alive. "The beauty of it is that with the beacons all located in the same place, we don't even have to go hunting. The prey will come to us."

CT-8713 appreciated his squad leader's way of thinking. "I don't imagine he'll be expecting this."

"That's the plan."

* * *

"Looks like one of the other teams blew the top off," CT-7667 remarked.

"Yeah, but which one?" CT-1200 questioned. "I wouldn't be surprised if Echo did it. They've already shown what they're willing to do to win. Maybe they wanted to make sure none of the other squads used the same way in."

"It doesn't matter either way," Cody stated. "It was never a part of our plan, so it won't impact us."

"Unless it did damage inside that makes it harder to reach the TACAN," 7667 stated.

"Judging from the scanner, I don't see that it's interfering," Cody said. "Our route wasn't damaged or blocked that I can see. In fact, it looks like they're getting very close."

"Maybe we shouldn't hand out up here," 7667 suggested. "Someone might decide to take a crack at us."

"There might be some crazy guys out there, but none of them are that crazy," Cody said.

CT-7667 glanced at his mission commander. "You sure about that, Sir? I think at least one is crazy enough to try anything."

"I'm trusting prudence to prevail," Cody replied. Then to himself, he added, _"For what my trust is worth."_

* * *

Captain Snap grinned in satisfaction. Only one beacon of the four was gone. That meant only one team was ahead of his. A closer look revealed that Havoc Squad's beacon was the one already taken.

As he and his men retrieved their own beacon, his attention was drawn as another squad entered the chamber.

"What?! We're third?!"

Snap regarded the speaker just long enough to spare a jab. "I'll give Commander Cody your regards."

Rex chuckled. "I'll do it myself when we pass you on the next leg."

Snap, living up to his nickname, snapped his gloved fingers—not an easy task. "You should know by now, you can't beat Cody at anything. None of us can. That's why I'm glad I'm on his team." With that, he and his squad mates left the chamber with their beacon.

Rex leaped up onto the small stone dais where the beacons stood. "Oh – not possible! Havoc beat us here?! Good grief, how could Wolffe have managed that? The man has zero original thinking—"

"How's this for original?"

Rex and 8462 both whirled towards the voice . . .

. . . just in time to see Wolffe and one of his men firing their weapons. But it was not blaster bolts that were forthcoming. Instead, two pinion nets burst from the barrels.

So unexpected was this trick that neither Rex nor 8462 had time to react. The weight of the nets drove them to their hands and knees, and the pinions, not making contact with a solid surface into which to drive, instead curled around the net links, tightening the wrap.

"Let's see if you can find an original way to get out of this," Wolffe taunted. "You like to play dirty. You may have met your match." With that, he and CT-8713 departed. As soon as they were out in the passageway, 8713 spoke up with admiration.

"I'm impressed, Sir. DIdn't know you had it in you."

Wolffe grinned a wolfish grin behind his visor. "CT-7567 isn't the only one full of surprises."

* * *

"Damn—can—can you get free?" Rex grimaced, struggling to unravel the netting.

"I'm trying," 8462 replied. "I can get my deece free. I'll try putting it on continuous and cutting away some of this osik."

"Good idea," Rex nodded. "Just don't hit me while you're cutting."

Several seconds later, 8462 was carefully shearing through the netting, and Rex was relaying their predicament to the rest of the squad.

"We're here in the beacon chamber, and we're trapped under coil webbing—Havoc Squad ambushed us," he reported. "We're cutting our way out, but it's taking time."

"Do you want us to come help you, Lieutenant?" CT-9090 asked. "We have to find another way out anyway. We can meet you in the chamber and all go out from there."

"Copy that," Rex replied. "Make it fast." The sound of hasty footsteps made him look up, and his breath trailed out of him in a moment of embarrassment.

CT-5052 actually halted in his tracks for a couple seconds as he took in the sight before him. He nodded to one of his squad mates to retrieve the beacon as he took several steps towards the two enmeshed men on the ground.

"This is just too good to be true," he said coolly. "Looks like I'm not the only one who wants to see you fail."

Rex was flippant. "This is just a little delay."

CT-5052 grunted dismissively. He'd had his gloat, and now there was no reason to hang around other than to savor the moment. But the goal was to win the race. "It's nice when someone else takes revenge for me," he said, then to his men, "Let's go."

Rex only allowed his thoughts to dwell for a second on the fact that 5052 apparently felt that he was owed some manner of revenge before returning his focus to his own entrapment. "How's it coming?" he asked.

"I'm just about clear," came the reply, and less than ten seconds later, he was free. He set immediately to the task of freeing his squad leader; and as he was doing so, CT-9090 and 5576 arrived.

"Get the beacon," Rex ordered. "Have you two figured a way out of here?"

"I've mapped a route," 9090 replied as 5576 retrieved the beacon.

Beacon in hand, 9090 asked, "Are we the last squad?"

"Not for long," Rex replied. "With the booster, we can catch up in the air."

The instant he was free, he got to his feet, and turned to CT-9090. "Lead the way out."

* * *

CT-2025 watched as Bravo Squad's gunship departed the area. Then Havoc Squad's. And a short time later, Crimson Squad.

"Lieutenant Rex, are you all okay? What's your status?"

"We're on our way."

"The other three squads have all departed."

"Copy that. Just be ready to decipher the next set of coordinates once we get there with the beacon."

CT-9090's alternate exit route turned out to be a fairly straight shot to the outside, where they were forced to climb over some of their own handiwork on the destroyed landing pad before the gunship was able to maneuver into a position where it could pick them up.

Right away, they began working on decoding the beacon and obtaining the coordinates for the next TACAN.

This leg of the contest took them out over the northern sea to a volcanic island. They were the only team with a beacon on the island, the other teams each having their own separate locations for TACAN number two. Without the rough-and-tumble of the previous retrieval, this one went much quicker and with only the hazards of a highly volcanic surface to navigate. It was followed with another joint TACAN snatch in a mock village filled with synthetic hostiles made from reprogrammed battle droids.

By the time Echo arrived at this third TACAN location, Crimson and Bravo Squads were just preparing to leave. Havoc Squad was already gone on its way to the fourth TACAN.

Still, Rex was not discouraged. There was plenty of distance in which to make up for lost time. After the mock village, the hunt took all four squads clear out of the atmosphere to a derelict orbiting supply ship that had been converted into part of the training scenario.

And this time, owing to the booster, Echo was less than a minute behind the leader, which was still Commander Wolffe and Havoc Squad.

As they approached the station, the wheels in Rex's head began to churn at high speed.

All three competitor ships had flown into the same landing bay . . .

"Are there other landing bays?" he asked.

A moment later, CT-8448 replied, "There's another large vessel bay directly opposite this one, and there's a number of much smaller bays on both sides."

"Are the passages accessible from the other bays?"

"They would appear to be, but it's impossible to tell if there are any blockages from the schematic," 8448 said.

Rex considered for a moment. "I'm willing to take that chance." Then to CT-1550, his 904th Communications Group code hacker and transmissions specialist, he asked, "Can you close these bay doors?"

CT-1550 felt a thrill of excitement. "Closing them in?"

"Can you do it?"

"Hell, yeah," 1550 replied eagerly. "Give me one minute to pull the signal, but I need a line-of-sight to pull it—"

"We can drop the team off and then come back," Rex decided. "Flyboy! Take us to the nearest bay for a drop-off!"

" _If he starts calling me Flyboy, I'm going to revert to calling him Blondie,"_ 9218 simpered as he directed the ship towards one of the smaller bays.

* * *

"CT-1550 is running an access sweep. Fek and all, the guy is faster and smarter than a droid." This remark, from Captain Dart, the senior controller tracking Echo's progress, drew the attention of everyone in the room. And while the other controllers were unable to leave their stations, Major Tides, Commander Steed, and Colonel Claw all came over to see what was going on.

They watched the hundreds of signal codes scrolling down the screen.

"Damn, a clone is doing that? How come none of us knew he had this skill?" Steed asked.

"This is more than a skill," Claw noted. "This is a talent. I take it the intent here is for him to close the bay doors?"

"Exactly."

Steed grinned. "Trapping the other squads' ships inside. 7567 is nothing if not bold."

"Well, last time his boldness landed him and his team in last place," Tides noted.

"I'd be willing to bet that's about to change," Steed said.

"Just remember, gentlemen, this isn't a contest of one-upmanship," Colonel Claw stated. "We have four highly competitive men in charge, and three of them are equally volatile. This could get out of hand very quickly. I don't want my officers treating this like a wager."

"Yes, Sir," came the contrite acknowledgments.

Steed added, "It _is_ difficult not to enjoy watching them. CT-7567 has a way of bringing out the best and the worst in everyone."

"The point is for him to bring out only the best," Claw replied. "Just like it's our job to make sure we bring out the best in our trainees." A pause, during which he grew very serious. "This is one of the finest classes we've ever had, and he's got the makings of one of the greatest officers we've ever taught. But if we don't rein him in, if we don't instill a sense of prudence in him, he's going to push himself over the edge and take a lot of others with him, because we've all seen . . . he's charismatic and the troops would follow him to hell just because he asks them to."

"Understood, Sir."

"He did it," Captain Dart interjected. "He pulled the signal and is sending the n-code to close the blast doors." Given Colonel Claw's stern words, he suppressed a grin and merely stated, "He's going to lock them in and remote the code control. This kid is good."

"Looks like they're onto him," Steed remarked. "They're trying to fly out of there."

Echo's controller was positively jubilant and trying to hide it. "They're in for a surprise. He's reversed direction on the shield."

"I don't want the whole supply ship to blow up," Claw warned.

"No danger of that, Sir," the controller replied. "They can't get up enough speed to cause any serious damage to their ships. They're just going to end up getting a few dents and needing to find another way to open the doors."

"I'll say this . . . these men are setting new standards for what it means to be an ARC," Claw proclaimed. "If we were looking for creative thinking and problem-solving, I think we've seen enough here to last a lifetime."

* * *

CT-2025 rounded the corner, CT-1448 and CT-390 right behind him.

"There it is."

CT-1448 ran forward to remove the beacon from the panel in which it was resting.

"Have the other teams already got their beacons?" CT-390 asked.

"I don't know," 2025 replied. "I don't know if they were located here or somewhere else. No time to worry about it. Let's get back to the ship. If this is a chance to pull ahead, Rex will peel the skin right off our bones if we blow it."

* * *

"You know, I'm surprised I didn't think of this earlier," Rex said thoughtfully as his gunship returned to the landing bay. "Can you pull each squad's comm frequencies and jam their ability to speak to each other?"

"With other equipment, yes," 1550 replied. "But not with what we have on board. I can't pull the comms through the blast door or the reversed shield. Once they're out here and in close enough range, I might be able to."

"Rex, this is 2025."

"Go ahead."

"We've got the beacon and are on our way back," came the report.

"The other beacons?" Rex inquired.

"We don't know. We don't know if they were at this same location. We haven't seen anyone from the other squads."

"Copy that. Well, we should have some time," Rex said smugly. "1550 managed to close and secure the doors. They won't be getting out of there for—"

He cut off abruptly as the supply ship suddenly lurched and shuddered.

"What the—"

* * *

Cody was well known for his calm, unflappable demeanor, and it was on full display now. As soon as he'd seen the doors closing, he'd ordered his pilot to make a run for the door; but when scans showed the shields had been reversed, he called off the run and immediately began formulating a plan to get through.

Turning to Shinie 2876, he ordered him to open the side troop deck door. "Stand by." He jumped down and flagged the other two ships.

From Crimson's ship, CT-5052 himself came forth. From Havoc's ship, CT-8881 emerged. The three men met between the ships.

"Unless someone knows how to hotwire those doors, we need to pool our resources to get out," Cody said bluntly

"We've got someone on our team who can hotwire them, but it will take some time," CT-5052 replied.

"We don't have time," Cody stated. "If CT-7567 is out there, you can bet he'll take advantage of this situation."

"Considering he probably caused it," 5052 grunted.

"So, what are you proposing, Commander?" This from CT-8881.

"If we continuous fire with all three ships' front CB lasers, we can take out the shield. Then a couple predator missiles should be able to blow a whole big enough for our ships to get through."

"Firing lasers in this enclosed space could end up superheating the metal and causing a friction spark," 5052 voiced his concern.

"Which is why we need to keep our electro-dampeners at full power and monitor ionization," Cody pointed out.

CT-8881 nodded. "I'm in."

"Me, too," 5052 agreed.

"Good. With any luck, we'll be through those doors by the time our men get back," Cody said. "Send word to your squad mates not to enter the bay until given the all-clear. Last thing we need for any of them to walk in here while we're frying metal. Keep your helmet comms on your squad frequency. You two, switch wrist comms to 890.1. Return to your ships and wait for my command."

Once back aboard, he spoke through his wrist comm, heard only by 5052 and 8881. "Make sure you raise shields before we begin firing."

"These babies don't have much in the way of shields, Commander," CT-8881 replied.

"They're better than nothing," Cody said. "Go to hover and raise shields. If you come into contact with any metal surface, you might be igniting that spark you were worried about, 5052." Once all three ships were off the surface with shields up, he gave the command to fire.

* * *

"This is why he's the best," Colonel Claw nodded approvingly. "He knows the only way out is for the three teams to work together for the moment."

"As long as he doesn't end up blowing the whole place to smithereens," Major Tides remarked.

"You sound like you're talking about 7567," Steed quipped. "This is Commander Cody. He's cautious to a fault."

"And he's being decisive," Claw noted. "I've been told that his roommate has been hounding him about his . . . waffling since day one."

"He may call it waffling; I call it thinking before he acts," Steed opined.

Colonel Claw inclined his head to one side. "Mm, I'd say there's some truth to the claim of indecisiveness. I think working for General Kenobi has put him in the position quite often of simply being told what to do. He's used to waiting for orders. Granted, once he has those orders, there's none who does a better job of carrying them out successfully. But he's not as fast at making decisions on his own. Or—no, that's not accurate: he makes decisions readily enough, but he changes his mind a lot."

"He didn't get to be the finest officer in the GAR by just following orders," Steed put forth.

"Clearly," the colonel agreed. "I'd never be one to second-guess Commander Cody's prowess – or his decisions, for that matter. But it's an accurate observation to say that he changes his course of action, changes his plans, very often; and that can give the appearance of being indecisive."

"Well, he's being decisive now," Tides said. "They just shorted the shield. One or two well-placed missiles, and they're back in business."

"Are we permitting them to arm missiles, Sir?" Bravo's senior controller asked.

"We've permitted everything else," Claw replied. "And if the only way for them to get out is to blow up the doors, then we're permitting them to arm missiles."

* * *

"That felt like an explosion," CT-9218 said from the cockpit.

CT-1550 looked at his squad leader. "You think they got through the doors?"

"Maybe," Rex replied. "2025, how far out are you?"

"We'll be there in thirty seconds, Rex," came the stolid reply.

"Make it twenty."

And they did make it twenty. The landing team was barely onboard before the ship made for the doors and open space. Coming around the corner of the station, they could see a massive hole blown through the doors, but no sign of the other ships.

"Make a pass," Rex ordered his pilot. "I want to see if they're still inside."

CT-9218 brought the ship cautiously towards the opening. Through the small view port just fore of the gunship's closed doors, Rex could make out one ship inside the bay, but the opening was not large enough for him to see the entire inside at once.

"Swing 'er round 045," Rex ordered, and his pilot complied.

But before the turn could be made, a full thrust reverse abruptly threw them all to the deck as CT-9218 tried to avoid colliding with a ship that had suddenly emerged from the opening. He successfully dodged one impact only to feel a brutal jolt that sent the ship side-slipping towards the supply ship.

He barely had time to shout a warning. "Everyone, hold on!"

* * *

"Bump them again." CT-5052's voice was even. It contained not a hint of emotion. He was only doing what was necessary to delay Echo Squad and their reckless, irresponsible leader. A couple bumps would do no real damage – just throw them off their game a bit. And it would be small payback.

In the cockpit, CT-1944 had no qualms about following the command. He, too, wanted to see Echo put back on their heels, made to pay for their trickery. The couple of friendly love-taps he delivered were perhaps not so gentle as they should have been, but nor were they debilitating.

As Crimson Squad then sped off towards their next objective, CT-5052 muttered to himself, "You can think I'm scared if you want, but at least I'm not a fool."

But if he thought the contest was over, he was sadly mistaken; for even as Echo Squad was passed by Havoc and Bravo Squads, Rex was hardly deterred by the rough play. In fact, he liked it. It got his blood pumping and fanned the flames of his competitive spirit. "Everyone okay?" Once he received affirmative replies and his ship was brought back under control, he looked to CT-390.

"Is the booster still online?"

"Still online, L.T."

He spoke his next command slowly, relishing its terseness. "Punch it."

* * *

"Uh-oh. I think 5052 just awoke the beast," Captain Dart stated. "I can hear it in 7567's voice: it's personal now."

"Has it ever not been personal?" Commander Steed asked rhetorically. "A lot of hatred between those two."

"The hatred is mostly on one side, Commander," Dart pointed out.

"That's true," Steed conceded. "But CT-7567 has allowed himself to react to 5052's hatred, and that's never a good thing." A pause. "What's baffling is why 5052 has singled out 7567."

"It's not as baffling as you think, Commander," Dart said. "When CT-5052 and I were in the same brigade, he was a different man. I know you're aware of what happened on Ryloth, you know the circumstances that made him the way he is now." He never took his eyes from the tracking screen for his squad. "I understand completely what he sees when he looks at CT-7567."

Commander Steed was not as committed in his response. "I understand what he went through, but I still don't see how he can transfer a perceived wrong to a man he'd never met before."

Captain Dart drew in a long, steady breath. "He needs someone to blame."

* * *

Bravo Company was the first to reenter the atmosphere, and they were moving at a tear. Cody felt fairly comfortable that he had a solid enough lead that even Echo's supercharged repulsors could not catch up with him on this leg of the quest. As the four ships skimmed down through the sky, he also noticed that they were all on roughly the same course, and he wondered if the next beacons were all collocated as were the last ones. If that was the case, he could be sure Rex would pull another trick out of his fourth point of contact.

"CT-0206, pull up the other three teams on scanner," he ordered. "We need to keep an eye out for any funny business. Pay special attention to Echo Squad."

CT-0206 redirected the deck scanner console – a crude but adequate scope grid layout with a handful of stretching toggles and squawk readers – to focus solely on the three trailing ships. Right away, he saw something worth reporting.

"Echo is closing the gap at . . . almost 1200 kph," he said, the astonishment coming through in his voice. "At that speed, they'll overtake us in . . . about one minute."

"Twelve hundred? That's almost fifty percent faster than these ships were built to go." This from CT-0207.

"There's no way a gunship can maintain structural integrity travelling at that speed for any sustained period of time," Cody stated. In the silence of his own thoughts, he added, _"He's got to know that. He's got to know that if he keeps this up, it will tear his ship apart."_ It was as much a hope as an attempt to convince himself that his roommate was not completely and utterly devoid of caution, that the drive to win had not left him bereft of common sense.

Once again, unbidden, thoughts of General Skywalker arose in his mind to the point where he could almost imagine it was the general himself leading Echo Squad. As an ally, such a thought would have given him great comfort.

As an adversary . . . it was distressing.

And that was putting it mildly.

* * *

"Get close enough so they can see the whites of my eyes!" Rex ordered.

They were coming up on Crimson Squad.

At roughly 2,000 meters altitude and travelling over a vast swampland, the lieutenant had directed his pilot to put a tail on CT-5052's gunship. Now, they were about to overtake it.

"Keep pace!" he ordered, slamming his fist against the door control and opening the starboard door panel. He removed his helmet. "Get closer! I want to make sure this message is received!"

Aboard Crimson's ship, CT-1944 in the cockpit was gearing up for a fight. "They're closing with us, Lieutenant! I think—I think they're going to bump us!"

CT-5052 raced to the port lookout window. "He can't be that stupid. A bump in space is one thing, but I bump in gravity, at these speeds . . . he can't be that stupid." He saw the side door open, and there stood CT-7567 smiling in a sinister conceit. The Echo Squad leader waved the palm of his hand up and down in front of his face in a wordless insult that every clone knew, a gesture that equated politely to the ascribing of idiocy.

CT-5052 could handle an insult. He'd suffered much worse.

But when Echo's ship swung starboard in what amounted to a warning lunge, causing his own ship to bank and fall back, that was as far as 5052's patience could stretch.

As Echo sped down and away towards the marshy surface, CT-5052 commanded in a calm and deliberate voice, "Follow them." Then to CT-1789, the co-pilot and primary weapons officer, "Launch a PM. Target one of their repulsors." PM was short for Penses Missile, a remote-guided short-range air-to-air missile.

"Sir?" CT-1789 was not sure he'd heard correctly.

"I said, send a PM to take out one of their repulsors," CT-5052 replied through gritted teeth.

"Sir, that's dangerous—"

"Not if you do your job and control the thing to its target," 5052 stated. "If you take out one engine, they'll be forced to land."

"A crash landing," CT-5211 mentioned from where he stood beside the lieutenant.

"These training ships are outfitted with all kinds of failsafes and remote controls," 5052 said. "You can be sure if the cadre thinks there's any danger, they'll take over."

"This isn't a range, Lieutenant," 5211 pointed out. "A mistake out here won't be as easy to correct."

"Major, I'm squad leader for this mission." There was a subtle boiling just beneath the lieutenant's calm veneer, and for a brief moment it spouted to the surface. "Do you really think for one second that they're going to let anything happen to their golden boy? Look, we set out to win this thing, and it's been dirty dealing all the way. We're not going to hurt anyone. We're just going to take them out of the race. CT-1789, prepare to fire."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

* * *

"Shall we take over, Sir?" Crimson's senior controller asked.

Colonel Claw did not answer right away. What he'd heard over Crimson's internal comm channel was still turning in his thoughts.

 _Golden boy._

Golden boy. Was CT-7567 really their golden boy? Had they treated him with deference in their determination to confirm that he really was the great super-soldier they believed him to be? Had they been willing to overlook his non-conformity and label his departures from procedure as creative thinking and initiative? Or had they truly considered his aberrations to be inspired problem-solving? One thing seemed clear: CT-7567 thrived on adversity and competition.

"No, let them proceed," he said. "If the missile looks like it's going to hit other than an engine target, remote destruct." To Captain Dart at Echo's master console, "And if it looks like Echo isn't going to be able to make a controlled crash landing, activate the emergency backups. But wait for my word. I don't want to let them off the hook too soon. Let's see what these boys can do."

The two controllers steeled themselves for a wild virtual ride, as Havoc and Bravo's controllers counted themselves lucky not to be involved in the melee.

Luck, however, was a scarce and fickle luxury, malleable and prone to circumstances.

And if circumstances had been wild thus far, they were about to get wilder.

* * *

"Lieutenant! Incoming!" CT-1448 shouted. "PM missile! Closing fast!"

"What?"

"We're being fired on!"

"Take evasive measures!" Rex ordered, pulling his helmet back on. "Everyone, secure yourselves!"

The problem with the gunships was that other than overhead handholds and the occasional jump seat, if so configured, there was not much in the way of "securing" oneself. The ships were meant for the rapid insertion and retraction of platoon-size elements. Thirty men standing. They were built, as Rex had said earlier, to take a beating, not for comfort. Even safety considerations focused mainly on the ship's ability to withstand enemy fire, hold together in a moderate-to-severe crash, and deliver its complement of surviving clones to the battlefield as quickly as possible.

A gunship's best defense was its pilot, and CT-9218 was proving himself to be a damned good one. The gunship did not carry heat flares or decoys to throw off incoming missiles; and despite CT-1448's attempts to use the rear CB lasers to shoot down the missile, the latter was simply moving too fast.

CT-9218 was flying the bulky warhorse as if it were a fighter, but even with the additional speed of the booster, it was a battle he knew he could not win.

"I can't shake it!" he huffed into his comm. "And—and—stress warnings are lighting up! I'm taking her down—"

He received no answer from below in the troop bay, where his fellow squad mates were being tossed around like pellets in a bwoon sack.

The moment of impact turned the attempt at evasion immediately into an attempt to maintain enough control to execute a controlled crash that did not end up killing them all.

With the spinning and rolling of evasive maneuvers now over, Rex managed to get to his feet. "Where were we hit?!"

"Right rear repulsor," 1448 replied. "We're going down."

"I've got it," 9218 said with a calm that was in stark contrast to his earlier tones when the missile was chasing them. It seemed, now that the missile had hit, he felt the control was, once again, at least partially in his hands. He could manage a landing. Of that, he was sure.

"Is she still flyable?" Rex asked.

"No chance, Lieutenant," 9218 replied. "I can guide her down, but that's about it."

"Can you land safely?"

"It'll be rough, but, uh, some of the edges of the marshland look pretty good," came the reply. "As long as we don't sink, we should be okay." A pause. "Everyone, brace for impact."

* * *

"Commander Cody! Crimson Squad just fired on Echo!"

Without a thought, Cody opened the port door. He was too stunned for even an expletive.

For nearly twenty seconds he watched as Echo Squad did everything in its power to try and stop the trailing missile. He watched as the missile made contact. And now he watched as the wounded gunship coasted uneasily towards the surface.

"They're going down!" Shinie 7132 cried out. "They're going to crash!"

A moment later, they watched as a spray of water fanned out behind the failing ship as it cut into the marshy wetland.

"Commander?"

Cody looked over to see Captain Snap looking expectantly at him, but it was Rex's voice he heard, taunting him.

" _You change your mind more than the wind changes direction."_

Damn him. Damn him and his ability to get inside Cody's head.

If the commander did what he was actually considering doing, this would go down as one of the most egregious moments of wishy-washiness in the annals of ARC training. It was even possible that Rex might never let him live it down.

"Commander Cody?" Snap pressed.

"Swing her round," Cody ordered with an exasperated sigh.

* * *

"Is everyone alright?" Rex asked, trudging through the knee-deep water covering the troop deck.

"Looks like it," CT-2025 replied. "A little banged up, but that's more likely from 9218's flying than the landing." He paused. "You boys okay up on top?"

It was 9218 himself who answered. "We're okay. I'd pat myself on the back, except that we've lost."

"Pat yourself on the back anyway," Rex told him. "That was a hell of a landing."

It was true. CT-9218 had brought them in just at the edge of a large area of open water where the thick and long-rooted sea grass and bulbous plants made a sturdy enough plant bed to cushion their landing and the muddy marsh basin had stopped their sinking any deeper. The front of the ship had plowed a bit deeper into the water, while the rear of the troop deck stood just barely above the surface.

"Well, I won't mark it as one of my best, but at least we're all alive," 9218 said.

"And disqualified," CT-9090 added with an exuberant mirth. "And worth every fekking second of it! Best time I've had since I've been here!"

CT-2025 chuckled. "It was a bit of an adventure, wasn't it?"

"If I'd known we were allowed to fire on each other, I'd have shot them all down within the first two minutes," 1448 quipped as he climbed out of his co-pilot's seat and slid down the side of the ship into the troop bay.

Rex felt a sense of pride and even amazement. These men, even if they were upset about being disqualified, certainly were not taking it badly. In fact, they all appeared to be pleased with the race they had run, with the schemes and unorthodox tactics. If Rex didn't know better, he'd guess they were already contemplating the makeup run.

"Well, I'm glad you all feel that way," he said, taking off his helmet and wiping the sweat from his brown. "That's the attitude I like to see."

"Lieutenant . . . look! A gunship is coming!" This from Shinie 8462.

All heads turned just as the sound of the engines became audible.

"Are they coming to finish us off?" CT-1550 asked.

Rex squinted. "That's Cody's ship."

They watched as the gunship drew up alongside them, hovering just above the water. Cody, without his helmet, and his men were standing in the open door.

"Come on. You and your men get onboard," the commander said. The expression of his face was a strange combination of resignation and authority.

Rex regarded him for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"Get on board _before I change my mind_." His choice of words was purposeful.

Now, without hesitation, Rex motioned to his men. "Let's go!" Then to CT-390 and under his breath, "Is the booster still intact?"

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"Bring it."

Shortly thereafter, Bravo's gunship climbed once more into the sky.

"Well, neither of our squads will win, but at least we'll both finish," Cody stated.

"We still have a chance to win," Rex insisted.

"We're way behind, Rex. There's no way we can catch up—"

"Oh yes, there is!" He motioned hastily to CT-390, who took CT-8448 and one of Cody's men with him for assistance. They had already opened the drive maintenance hatch before Cody realized what was being proposed.

"No, Rex, you're not going to hook that thing up in my ship—"

But this was now Rex's situation, and he was able to use every strength of his charismatic and persuasive personality to move things in the direction he wanted. Cody's men were loyal to the commander and would never disobey him; and that left Rex with two choices: either change the commander's mind—always a very good possibility—or keep the commander so occupied and harried that he had no time to countermand his usurper roommate.

As it turned out, Rex managed the latter while attempting the former.

"Listen, Cody, if there's still a chance to win, shouldn't we take it? Imagine how it would be for us to win this together? Now, that would be worth bragging about," Rex insisted, planting his shoulder against the Commander's chest and nudging him towards the front of the troop bay, away from the activities taking place in the rear.

"I'm not interested in bragging rights," Cody replied. "I went back because I didn't want to see you fail. I didn't want to see your squad fail. I don't care who finishes first. I don't care who finishes last."

"Ah, Commander! It's always better to finish first than last. In war, last means defeat," Rex droned on, casting surreptitious glances towards the back of the ship.

"This isn't war," Cody replied. "You and CT-5052 have turned this into a grudge match."

"No, no, we haven't," Rex pushed back. "This is just competition . . . the ARC way."

Cody felt a sting of anger at those words. "This isn't the example we should be setting for the other trainees, especially the Shinies. And—" he spoke with emphasis, "I don't want that thing installed on my ship. You know damned well these ships aren't made for that kind of speed, and we're carrying twice as many men now as—"

"Cody, Cody—Commander! The ship is built to carry an entire platoon! Thirty men! We're—we're only two-thirds full—"

"Rex, don't—"

Rex pulled off his helmet and turned with open, entreating arms to the rest of the men. "We all want to win this thing, don't we?! It's worth putting up a fight just to show the cadre that we can overcome all the osik that's been thrown at us! We can do this!"

Red anger arose in Cody's cheeks, but he was faced with something he had not expected: his own men voicing fervent agreement with Rex. They were getting caught up in the moment, in the contagious enthusiasm. But was it a dangerous enthusiasm? Or was Cody just being resentful of his roommate's ability to draw people in?

Rex saw CT-390 give him a thumbs up.

His next action, undertaken without any thought other than victory, was something he would look back on with regret for the rest of his life.

He punched the wall comm that connected him with the cockpit. "Cut power and prepare to re-engage on my mark!"

In the cockpit, CT-8383 could not distinguish that the voice was any other than his squad leader. He cut power.

"What—what! Belay—belay that—" Cody ordered, slamming Rex against the bulkhead.

Rex shoved back then drew the commander in close. "When are you going to stop pecking around and learn to take some chances?! Your men want to win! Once—just once!—put aside the rulebook and show them that you're more than just a—a—" He bit back on what would have been an unnecessary and untrue insult.

Cody pushed him violently away. He spoke in a low voice. "This is my ship and my squad. You and your men _are passengers_. Is that clear?"

At that moment, CT-8383 spoke from the cockpit. "Commander, we're losing altitude at a dangerous rate. Can we reengage the engines?"

Cody looked back to where CT-390 was regarding him, waiting for the decision.

Cody, after a brief hesitation, held out his hand to indicate agreement. He would not order the booster removed.

"Re-engage," he ordered.

"Hold on!" Rex shouted, and in the next instance, the occupants found themselves jolted by the sudden acceleration.

Rex grinned. He had prevailed once again. He now put a friendly hand on Cody's shoulder. "You'll see. We can still win this."

Cody turned his head, regarded him in silence for a moment, then stated in a tightly controlled voice, "I'm putting you off at the next location."

* * *

"Commander, there's another gunship coming up behind us. It's moving fast."

Wolffe looked at the scanner array and scowled. Crimson Squad had been just slightly behind him for the past hundred kilometers. But now, it was clear that a third ship was closing ground; and at the speed it was traveling, there was no question that it was Echo Squad.

"I thought Crimson took them out," Wolffe said gruffly. "How the hell are they back there now? And what happened to Commander Cody's ship?"

"Sir . . . if I may," CT-8722 pulled the stretch on the approaching ship. "That _is_ Commander Cody's ship."

"What? How is—" Wolffe knit his brows. "The commander must have gone back and taken whatever Echo was using that gave them all that speed. Now, he's using it in his own ship." A pause. "Pilot, increase speed."

"We're at full speed as it is, Commander."

Wolffe dove deep into his thoughts. Obviously, he himself was not averse to playing dirty. But just how far was he willing to push things in order to win? Was it worth it to put other trainees' lives at risk? A derisive laugh popped within him. He recalled the land navigation exercise, his own injuries, and the genuine dangers of that exercise. Why should this one be any different?

"Stand by on CBs. No one's getting past us."

"Standing by."

* * *

"I don't believe it," 5052 breathed. "It—it can't be him. We saw them go down." As if to prove his eyes weren't deceiving him, he opened the portside door and bracing himself against the jam, he leaned out as far as was safe. "That can't be them. There's no damage to that ship."

"It isn't them, Lieutenant," came confirmation from the clone manning the scope. "It's Bravo Squad."

"How are they moving so fast?"

"They'll be beside us in fifteen seconds, Lieutenant. What are your orders?"

And what could his orders be? He'd already taken out one ship. There was absolutely no way he would even contemplate doing the same to Commander Cody. That would be going too far.

"Just . . . give us all the speed you've got," he replied morosely. It was the best he could do.

* * *

It did not surprise Cody that Rex had not taken seriously his threat to offload him at the next stop. In fact, he was beginning to doubt whether Rex had ever taken him seriously. He imagined that his opportunistic roommate must view their relationship as one very important step on his way to the 501st. Nothing more, nothing less.

But of course, the commander also was experienced enough to recognize when his anger was clouding his judgment. In the events that had just happened—and were still happening—there had been nothing of true surprise in Rex's actions. It was just that Cody had never expected Rex to show that kind of disrespect towards him.

Be that as it may, it was something that could wait to be addressed at a later time; for at the moment, the commander had one priority, and that was making sure his ship did not fall apart. He could hear the unnatural groaning and grating of metal being stressed to its limits. He could hear the high-pitched whirr of repulsor coils conducting more ion traffic than they were built for.

He wasn't even sure the ship would make it to the next destination if it continued on at this rate. And then, he heard a voice in his ear.

"Reduce speed." It was Rex, speaking over the comm panel in the ship's rear. The lieutenant had moved to the back of the troop deck where he was now surrounded by his own men. This suited Cody just fine, for his anger was such that he really did not want to even lay eyes on his roommate for the time being.

The command to reduce speed should have brought the commander some measure of relief. And for a moment, it did. But then suspicion began to seep in around the corners.

And with good reason.

As Cody began to make his way to the back of the deck for the purpose of confronting his wayward friend, he heard Rex speak once again. "Hold this position and stay alongside."

" _Alongside?"_

"Everyone, hold on!" Again, this was Rex, and the warning was followed by the starboard door opening.

In the blink of an eye, Rex was standing in the opening, his blaster raised and pointed towards Crimson's ship. He fired off a cable shot that embedded just above the other ship's open portside door, activated the retraction feature and sailed out the door like a human streamer. Immediately behind him went CT-9090 and CT-5576 on their own cables.

"What the hell are you—fek and all, are you crazy?!" Cody roared. "CT-8383, move us away! Rex! Rex!" But he knew he was wasting his breath. Rex could not hear him through the rush of air, and he was still only on his internal frequency. The comm panel in the ship only reached other Bravo Squad members.

He went to his last resort. He went to the emergency comm channel that would be audible to all the clones participating in the exercise. It would effectively mean the conclusion of the event, but as far as Cody was concerned, it was over anyway.

* * *

The retraction only took three seconds, and Rex was on board Crimson's ship, facing a group of men so stunned, they hardly knew what to do.

But Rex had known what he was going to do, and he went straight to it. Diving forward, he caught CT-5052 around the waist and took him down. With the heel of his hand, he dislodged his helmet and began punching. CT-5052 fought back, and together the two rolled across the deck, coming perilously close to the edge. When 9090 and 5576 climbed aboard, the melee expanded.

"Silflay hraka, u embleer hrair!*" Rex cursed in his preferred language for crudity, Lapine. "Next—time—you try to kill me—and my men, you'd better—make sure you—finish the job!"

"Get the fek off me!"

"You asked for this! You're getting what—damn! what you—ow! Fek!"

"We're going to get disqualified! Damn it, we're all going to—" That was Cody's voice breaking in over the emergency frequency.

Rex felt the ship suddenly slow down and level out, followed by a precipitous drop in altitude and the closing of the doors.

"They've taken back control." This was from CT-1944 in the cockpit. "We're all screwed."

Rex pushed up onto one knee. "This is your fault."

There was no mistaking the arrogance, the pride in his voice, as if he had no worries whatsoever that his actions had brought the entire exercise to an end – as if just such an outcome had been perfectly acceptable to him.

CT-5052 glared at him for a moment before speaking. And then all he could manage was, "You're the worst kind of soldier."

Rex stood up. "Take a good look at yourself and then see if you can still say that."

* * *

"Commander Cody was going to call it," Major Steed said, blowing his breath out in relief. "We just beat him to it."

"Amazing how quickly it went downhill," Tides remarked. "I've seen some crazy things before, but that was . . . "

"Dangerous and irresponsible," Colonel Claw finished the sentence. "I want all four squad leaders in my office in one hour."

* * *

 _Whew! And just getting started. Anyway, some notes:_

 _Jai'Galaar = Shriek Hawk (from which comes Jaig Eyes, which Rex wears on his helmet)_

 _Ben'ho-er = a cat-like animal with the requisite ability to land on its feet_

 _Scinchi Doe = a deer_

 _Bwoon sack = a leather sack in which rifle pellets are carried_

 _Uquilo = predatory bird_

 _Silflay hraka, u embleer hrair (from Watership Down, yes, again): "Eat sh**, you stinking one of a thousand enemies."_

 _The handwave gesture Rex makes in front of his face is familiar to anyone who has driven in Germany, where they do not give the finger for offenses, but wave their hands in front of the face, "You're crazy."_


	71. Chapter 70

_**Dear Reader, Thanks to Ms CT-782 and The Unnamed Guest for the reviews of the last chapter. I invite other folks to please leave a word or two to let me know whether you're still enjoying the story. 14,000 words is a lot of work when there seems to be little interest. If the story bites or is boring, you can tell me that, too. I have a thick skin. I don't write just for myself but so I can share with others. Moving on, this chapter is shorter, but still fairly long. A little drama. I hope you enjoy. CS**_

Chapter 70 The Damaged

" _At night he remembers freedom and flies in a dream; the dawn ruins it.  
He is strong, and pain is worse to the strong.  
No one but death the redeemer will humble that head, the intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.  
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those that ask mercy.  
You do not know him, you communal people; or you have forgotten him.  
But beautiful and wild, the hawks and men that are dying, they remember him."_

 _Hurt Hawks_  
Robinson Jeffers

* * *

"Gentlemen."

Colonel Claw paced before the four trainees lined up inside his office. Behind him, Major Tides and Commander Steed stood silently.

"I saw a lot to admire out there today," he said. "A lot of competition and enthusiasm. A lot of creativity." He stopped at one end of the line. "And a lot that bordered on maniacal. I say maniacal rather than crazy, because crazy is what happens when a man doesn't know what he's doing. Maniacal is planned, consciously decided." He walked slowly past each man, regarding them one-by-one without speaking, coming at last to stand with his back to them.

"We set no rules in the hopes that our trainees will find new and original ways to win," he said before turning to face them. "But when the focus turns from winning the race to defeating the other teams at any cost, then you've lost sight of the whole purpose of the exercise." A pause. "When you act without common sense, you make a mockery of the entire process. When you let someone draw you into reckless behavior, you make us question your ability to act within reason.

"Needless to say, you have all failed this portion of the training," he went on. "But you will have another chance tomorrow. The other four teams will run their race in the morning. You all will re-run your race in the afternoon. The day after that, E&E begins. But if any of you fail the re-test, your ARC training will be over. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Sir," the four replied in unison.

"Dismissed." Yet, as they all made to leave, Colonel Claw spoke, "Commander Cody, remain."

Cody drew in a deep breath as he turned back into the room. "Yes, Sir?"

Once the others were gone, Colonel Claw sat on the edge of his desk. "At ease."

Cody relaxed but only slightly.

"I'm sorry we had to fail your squad as well," the colonel explained. "You and Commander Wolffe probably would have finished the exercise. I hope you understand why we had to fail all of you."

"I think so, Sir," Cody replied.

"Commander . . . you know that, uh, that it's no coincidence that we roomed you with CT-7567," Claw stated.

"No, I didn't know that."

"You do now." A pause. "There's no question that you are best field commander in the Army, clone or otherwise. And there's no question that CT-7567 is right there, one step behind you. Where he's lacking is in judgment. In his current position as a platoon leader, a mistake in judgment doesn't run the same level of risk as it would if he were to be assigned to a higher echelon . . . or in his capacity as an ARC trooper."

"Rex, by his own admission, is a risk-taker," Cody replied. "Except to him, they're not risks. He's that confident in his abilities."

"And to a degree, that confidence is warranted," Colonel Claw replied. "The man is brilliant in more ways that we can count. But again, his weakness is his judgment. And if he's not reined in, he'll never be ready to take on the greater responsibilities for which the command is grooming him."

"May I ask, what greater responsibilities are those?"

Colonel Claw made an arch expression. "Battle Group Trident and Sector IX Headquarters have long wanted him to move up to battalion and brigade commander. You may be unaware, but in his neck of space, he has quite a reputation. It wasn't just his commander who recommended he come here. There was pressure brought to bear by those in the upper echelons."

"That's all very interesting, Colonel," Cody replied. "But you're aware that he's gunning for a position in the 501st, aren't you?"

"I'm aware," Claw replied. "He'll go wherever the Army needs him the most. That is, if he goes anywhere. Right now, I'm not prepared to say with any certainty that he will pass this course."

Cody, of equal rank with the colonel yet mindful of the commandant's position, assumed a somewhat more familiar demeanor. "If you don't mind me saying so, you're talking about reining in a . . . wild stallion. It's not just his style. I think it's who he is."

"Be that as it may, you saw what happened out there today. He went way over the line."

"It was CT-5052 who fired the missile."

"Reacting to the provocation was bad judgment on his part," Claw acknowledged. "But did you not see the provocation? The same provocation that rears its head in almost every exercise?"

"Yes, of course, I did," Cody replied.

"That's what we want you to work on."

"With all due respect, Colonel, I wasn't aware that my own success would be hinging on whether or not I'm able to mold Rex into the kind of officer you want. I have no more influence over him than you do," Cody explained, sounding rather disgusted.

"That's where you're wrong, Commander," Claw differed. "He listens to you. He wants to impress you more than he wants to impress us." A pause. "Your success in this course doesn't depend on what you accomplish with him. But his success definitely does."

* * *

The whole way back to his room, Cody ruminated over the morning's debacle, culminating with his private meeting in the commandant's office. And while the commander might normally react to such happenings with a generous dose of even-mindedness, he was still furious not only over Rex's actions but also his complete and utter disregard for what Cody had considered to be a burgeoning friendship.

As if those transgressions were not enough, the commandant had added insult to injury by actually suggesting that Cody take it upon himself to help guide Rex away from his faults, his errant _judgment_ , as it were.

" _As if I'm responsible for him somehow. Fek and all, I'm not the one who chose him as a roommate. If they had planned all this from the beginning, they could have at least told me."_ But no matter how he blamed the cadre, he knew the true source of his anger; and it would not leave him in peace. _"After all I've tried to do for him, after all I've put up with and tolerated . . . and I was stupid enough to think he actually considered me to be a brother . . . he humiliated me in front of my squad, took over my ship . . . "_

The more he thought about it, the greater his fury, until when, at last, he came to his room, he had worked himself into a smoldering rage.

Inside, Rex was in the process of removing his armor.

"So, did you get your own private ass-chewing? What did the Claw have to say?" he asked right away, and the buoyancy in his voice told the commander that the morning's events had not even registered with the lieutenant.

When Cody didn't answer, Rex pressed, "Must have been pretty bad if you're not willing to talk about it. Eh, well, you know you don't have anything to worry about. You're already going to be honor graduate. There's no way they'd let you fail. One of the benefits of working for General Kenobi, huh?"

Cody turned and with all his strength, delivered a right hook with such force that it sent Rex careening over the end of his bed and into the desk set beyond.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Cody demanded furiously. "Do you not take anything seriously? Is this all just a fekking game to you?!"

Rex, dazed and shocked, pushed up onto his hands and knees then into a sitting position on the floor with his back against the wall. He brought one hand to his face and gingerly touched his cheek; then, seeing droplets of blood spattering his palm, he felt along his chin, finding the cut that was the source of the blood. Knowing that Cody's blow had caught him square in the side of the face, he surmised that he must have hit his chin on the chair or the desk on his way down. Little matter, it was.

Had his adversary been anyone else besides Cody, he would have already been back on his feet and launching a return assault. But this was so unexpected, so bewildering, that he wasn't sure how to react. The idea of coming to blows with Cody was something so unfathomable, that its mere contemplation seemed surreal.

"You have to push everyone's buttons, don't you? You have to embarrass and humiliate people—men you call your brothers! You didn't come here to improve your skills; you came here to convince yourself how much better you are than everyone else," Cody ground out. "Let me tell you something. I trusted you. I saw great things in you. Now, I'm not so sure. What I see now is a selfish, self-important, egotistical braggart whose only interest is in how to bend others to his will." He took a step back towards the door, feeling that the space was suddenly too small and growing smaller by the second. He shook his head, trying to find the words. At last, he concluded, "I knew from the first day what kind of man you were, but I let my guard down. Not anymore. You can remain the man you are, Rex. But know that, if you do, you're going to rack up a lot of dead brothers behind you. But then again . . . maybe you don't care."

With that, Cody left the room.

Rex got slowly to his feet. His head was swimming – and not just from the blow.

He could not get his mind around what had just happened. Had he not experienced it firsthand, he would never have believed Cody capable of such hostility. The commander had shown himself to be nothing if not unflappable. Even-keeled, rational, not given to bursts of emotion. But there was no doubting the veracity of his anger.

And suddenly, Rex feared he had made a terrible mistake in how he'd treated what had happened that morning. What he had viewed as a mere competition between brothers, a no-rules chance to pull out all the stops, Cody—and likely, the others—had seen through the lens of seriousness apparently expected of an ARC trooper.

"It was just an exercise," he said out loud to no one but himself, wiping his bleeding chin with the back of his hand. "It's . . . no reason to get so angry. They're letting us do a makeup . . . "

He wasn't convincing himself.

Maybe he _had_ gone too far.

Cody certainly believed that to be the case; and that was the only thing Rex feared . . .

. . . the loss of his roommate's friendship.

* * *

"Commander!"

Cody had not had any place in mind when he'd left his room. He'd just wanted to be out of Rex's presence. He'd made it only to the end of his billeting corridor when one of the cadre's administrative staff caught up with him.

"Yes? What is it?"

"You have a visitor."

"A visitor? Who?"

"General Kenobi."

This was welcome news, a distraction from bothersome thoughts. He followed the man back to the cadre offices and entered one of the private meeting rooms where General Kenobi was waiting.

"Cody, it's good to see you," the Jedi general smiled.

"You, as well, General," Cody replied. "Unexpected, but good."

"I was on my way to Coruscant for some Jedi Council business, and Myotta was on the way—sort of," General Kenobi explained. "I thought you'd enjoy a visit."

"Your timing is perfect," Cody replied. "But I was kind of hoping you were here to get me."

"Why, Commander! Aren't you having a good time?"

Cody inclined his head in a non-answer, then asked, "How are things going back at the front?"

"It's a stalemate over Kempera at the moment—or it was when I left," Kenobi replied. "I haven't heard any different from Anakin since my departure, so I can only assume the situation is the same."

"How is General Skywalker?"

Obi-wan chuckled. "Same as always." A pause. "So, ten more days and you're done here."

Cody knew his general well enough to know that there was an ulterior motive behind his visit which he was not discussing. But he also knew his general respected him enough to answer directly if an inquiry was made.

"Ten days that can't pass quickly enough," Cody replied. "General Kenobi, what's the real reason you're here?"

The Jedi grinned. "Should I be disturbed that you can read me so well?"

"I'm observant."

Kenobi nodded. "Actually, there _is_ something I wanted to talk to you about."

* * *

The night air was still balmy, a gentle breeze blowing up from the south.

Rex didn't need a boost to scale the wall. He could get over it on his own. As he dropped down on the other side, he drew in a deep breath.

He needed to clear his head.

* * *

The afternoon—reserved for debriefing the morning's exercise—was now free, given the exercise's curtailment, although Cody thought that such a discussion might have been very interesting indeed. Still, he imagined that the others, like himself, were still too angry to talk about the events with any semblance of objectivity.

And so the commander spent the next several hours after General Kenobi's visit doing anything to avoid returning to his room. He went to the fitness rooms, the dining hall, the star labs. He even took a full-armor jaunt along on the outdoor trails.

His level of anger had subsided considerably, especially after his visit with General Kenobi; but it was towards midnight before he finally decided he had regained enough equanimity to face his roommate, although he was hoping Rex would be asleep by the time he returned.

Instead, and to his even greater relief, he found the room empty.

Good. This way, he could pretend to be asleep when Rex returned.

He showered and got into bed, feeling he had earned a good night's sleep.

But much to his chagrin, sleep was not so accommodating. Apparently, the part of his brain responsible for slumber had no intention of allowing him to escape the troublesome thoughts that nagged persistently at what he might loosely call his conscience.

He had gotten carried away earlier with Rex.

Yes, his roommate's remarks about the exercise had been thoughtless; and his implying that Cody would be named honor graduate for no reason other than his position as General Kenobi's first-in-command had been crass and artless . . .

" _But I shouldn't have decked him. He's been that way since the day I met him. Why was I expecting anything different? Huh, you know very well why: because words don't get through to him. It was the only way to make him listen, to make him wake up to the fact that this isn't a game—"_ He caught himself. _"But . . . it isn't the battlefield either."_ A realization began to dawn on him. _"All of his tricks, his breaking the rules . . . those would all be accepted on the battlefield, if they brought about victory. It's not his judgment that's at fault. It's his refusal—or his inability—to treat training any different than he does battle. His level of intensity never wanes."_

For two hours, Cody's mind was relentless. No matter how he tried to force sleep, he finally threw in the towel and sat up in the bed.

"I don't believe this," he said out loud. "Maybe I am just a fekking wishy-washy _panjun_ like you said. But it's almost two-thirty in the morning, way past curfew, and you should be back by now. Huh!" He threw his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his utility uniform. "And now, you're going to make me go out there and find your bantha-thick hide. Fine. That's fine, because I'm not going to be made to look like a fool again. I may be cautious, but my instincts are good enough."

He got dressed and went out into the corridor.

He was struck immediately with how different the place was in the dead of night. During daylight hours, the halls were brightly lit, filled with activity and life. Now, the overhead lights were dimmed, casting the corridor in shadowy recesses.

No one was about. The only sounds were the soft and constant humming of climate control machinery and Cody's footsteps on the polished floor.

Where to start? There were many places Rex could have gone, though only a handful were serious considerations. The gym was dark and empty. The star labs, as well. The dining hall. The maintenance hangars. Further down the list were the reference library, the lesser fitness room on the lower level, and the planetarium.

They were all coming up empty.

" _He didn't drop out,"_ Cody assured himself. _"His stuff is still in the room. Damn it, Rex, you're really ticking me off."_

After an hour of searching, he decided to check back at the room. Maybe Rex had returned.

As he passed by the entrance to the massive indoor Xoba Range, he saw that the yellow "Stand By" light was illuminated.

The Xoba range, like Range 9 on Kamino, was a trace-tracker range but ten times the size. They'd run a few scenarios on the range, but most of their training had been conducted in real-world conditions. Still, the Xoba was an impressive piece of engineering.

And it seemed unlikely that it would be in use at three-thirty in the morning.

Cody entered the range on the observation ring; and as he drew closer to the barrier rail, his breath seeped out of him in awe. There, within the range perimeter was a planetscape that he recognized immediately.

Every clone knew Ryloth, whether he had fought there or not. The disaster that had befallen Republic forces on that planet was a secret to no one. It had been studied and debated, regretted and despised. Under their breath, many clones expressed their disgust and dissatisfaction with not only the mission's premise, but also the way the battle had been conducted and the seemingly unappreciated and pointless loss of clone troopers who had been part of the valiant last stand.

Cody himself had never been on Ryloth, but the arid desert-like canyon landscape stretching away before him into a sort of thorny-treed moraine was unmistakable. He'd seen holos of the carnage. He'd watched dozens of digital training reels dedicated to depicting the slaughter.

"And now they're turning it into a training scenario."

He was mesmerized by the idea.

As he leaned forward, resting his palms against the solid metal balustrade, the scene below him suddenly came to life with such violence that he startled and jerked back. There were explosions that could be felt even where he stood within the safety of the observation ring. Flashes of light, though filtered through the protective shield, were temporarily blinding.

Somewhere in the din, he could detect men's voices – shouting, screaming, crying out. They were the unmistakable voices of his fellow clones – he now thought of them as brothers, thanks to Rex.

Through the dust and smoke, he could make out the figures of a dozen or more men – he could not be sure of numbers, the scene was so chaotic. They were running, dodging, tripping, falling, occasionally turning around to return fire against an as yet invisible enemy. They were clearly in full retreat. Cody could make out the maroon-brown horned crest of the 303d Attack Legion, one of the 4th Brigade Combat Team's units, parent unit to . . .

 _The 388_ _th_ _Extraction Squadron._

And at the same instant he realized what he was watching, he saw the one figure in the confusion whose armor markings—scuffs, scorch marks, dents—identified him as the commander's classmate.

CT-5052.

None of the communications were being broadcast over the speakers, but Cody could see 5052 speaking into his wrist comm, and his movements indicated what his obscured face did not. He was desperate, perhaps even fearful. As he broke from a place of cover, ran ten meters to take cover again, the canyon walls around him erupted into storms of rocky debris as incoming munitions tore the place up around him. Another short dash took him out of sight.

Cody looked up at the control deck. The one-way windows prevented him from seeing who was running the scenario, but clearly someone had to be pulling the switches. He took the rapid chute at the near end of the observation ring and went up to get the benefit of a controller's view.

Usually, when a scenario was in progress, the control deck was locked to prevent disturbances. But Cody did not know that, so he had no reason to be surprised when the door slid open, admitting him into a nerve center that far surpassed anything he had seen even on a super star destroyer. Banks of scopes stood in orderly array as far as the eye could see. The place was dark and empty.

Except for one clone.

Cody recognized Captain Dart, one of the senior controllers.

He sat in a swivel chair that gave him quick access to a dozen screens and a dashboard of controls. On almost every screen, the image of CT-5052 was being tracked.

"Captain?" Cody inquired, approaching him.

Captain Dart jerked his head to the side in surprise. Seeing who it was, his shoulders relaxed.

"Commander Cody. I certainly wasn't expecting any visitors at this hour." The captain may have looked at ease, but his voice contained the slight inflection of a man who knows he's been caught doing something he had not wanted to be caught doing. "How did you get in?"

"The door was unlocked." He stepped up and looked from screen to screen. "Ryloth?"

"Yes," Dart replied. "It's, uh, a new scenario we're developing. It's got a long way to go, but . . . it's getting there."

"That's CT-5052 down there," Cody stated.

"Yes, you're right," Dart confirmed. "I thought, given what he and I went through, that he'd be a good choice to run some of the algorithms with. We both have some experience."

"You were on Ryloth?"

"Pilot, 388th Extraction Squadron," Dart stated, and although his answer was frank, there was a guardedness to his voice and manner.

"You were in the same unit as CT-5052?"

"His name is Bly."

"He never told us that. He never mentioned having a name."

"Yeah, well . . . " His voice fell off uncomfortably.

Cody did not pursue. He could tell there was some underlying matter of privacy or pain there, and he had no desire to dredge up unpleasantness. Instead, he turned to the action on the screens. "How are you running this whole thing alone?"

"It's just the basic scenario . . . the template that a team of controllers would build on for this particular battle. All those other troopers . . . they're plasma creations just like on Range 9. I've been developing algorithms for each one—not just me, but my team. I like to come here at night when it's quiet so I can test them out. It's a long, arduous process. But it will be a good scenario when it's completed." A pause. "It was hell living through it, but something good is going to come of it. That's what we're doing here."

Cody watched as, on one screen, tanks piloted by battle droids entered the scenario from thin air. Super battle droids appeared in loose ranks, advancing in pursuit of the fleeing clones. A static shell from one of the tanks landed close to where CT-5052 was leading the retreat. A nearby clone was blown off his feet, landing close to 5052, who flung the man over his shoulders and continued to run while screaming into his comm.

But now Cody could hear the words being spoken.

From the ground: "How far?! How far?!"

"RZ 3 minutes."

He knew the meaning. _Retraction Zone 3 minutes._ It meant that the aircraft would be at the extraction zone in three minutes.

"Who's answering?"

"That's me. All the voices—they're all mine in the test pattern. Plus, I was _the_ pilot for this particular extraction," Dart replied. Again, that hint of remorse.

Cody was cautious, but his next question was not exactly palliative.

"You were a pilot. How come you're not flying anymore?"

After a moment's hesitation, Captain Dart stood up and drew up the top of his utility grubs. "That's why." The left side of his abdomen, down to his hip and disappearing up under the garment, was fully prosthetic. Artificial organs, blood vessels, translucent flesh. "The final mission on Ryloth . . . was my final mission, as well."

"That's . . . that's incredible," Cody said with no sense of squeamishness as he took a closer look at the extraordinary effort that kept this former pilot alive. "What happened to you?"

"We were going in for an extraction . . . it was Bly's platoon—I mean, he wasn't the platoon leader, but he was in the platoon. We were taking heavy surface-to-air fire . . . munitions and flak. We'd nicknamed our ship Flak-Bait." A wry grin of remembrance softened his otherwise stony features. "She sure did us a good turn more times than I can tell you." He nodded towards the screens. "They were being pursued and trying to slow the tinnies' advance so that—to give the Twi'leks more time to get on board the ships. There weren't many of the tail heads that made it out of villages, but we were trying to rescue as many as we could. My mission—me and my crew—was to pick up the rear platoon. That was Bly's platoon." He squared his shoulders. "Watch the screens . . . you'll see what happened."

"RZ 2 minutes. Confirm coordinates."

No sooner had the invisible pilot finished speaking than a loud bang of static came over the comm. Seconds later, another voice – not as calm as the pilot's – came across the air with crackling and breakup. "Mayday! Mayday! We've been hit! Pilot dead! Left leading edge obliterated! We—we can still fly but—fek—fek—damn it! We're still coming! We'll try to hold it together!"

Cody leaned forward over Dart's shoulder. He watched as Bly, now crouching on the ground, cradling what might very well be a dead man that he'd carried for the last hundred meters, appeared to struggle with his decision.

"Turn back," he said at last.

"We're almost there, Sir—"

"I am giving you an order! Turn back! There's no way you'll be able to get us out of here! Just—just follow my command and turn back! The zone is hot, and you'll never make it—"

Another voice broke in. "We've dropped our cargo and can attempt a pickup."

"Zephyr," Dart whispered.

"Ditto that," came yet another clone voice, slightly distinct from the others. "We just dumped our tail heads and are enroute to you."

"You heard that, Flak-Bait," CT-5052 shouted, addressing the crew of the damaged ship. "I'm ordering you one last time – turn back or fek and all, I'll court-martial every one of you for insubordination!"

A long radio silence ensued.

"Do you hear me?!" Bly demanded.

"Yes, Sir. Acknowledged. Turning back."

Captain Dart visibly slumped in his seat. "And so we retreated. He ordered us to retreat."

Cody waited a moment before asking, "So, how did they get out?"

Dart turned slowly and regarded him with mournful eyes. "They didn't."

"But—"

"The other two ships that went in . . . both were shot down." Dart returned his gaze to the screens. "We lost a lot of good men that day – air crews and ground teams. My own crew – they thought I was dead. If they hadn't turned back, I would be."

Cody did not understand. "But if—if no one ever got in to rescue them, how is—how is CT-5052 still here?"

Dart stiffened, but before he could answer, an ear-piercing cry of anguish burst across the speakers. A look at the screens showed CT-5052 pounding his fist against canyon wall. "Bastards!" he wailed. "Bastards! You're all—you're all bastards! How could you—how—how—" He tore his helmet off, spiking it against the ground. He raised his clenched fists to his face and dropped to his knees.

The captain got quickly to his feet. "I'm sorry, Commander, I need to get down there."

Cody, stunned at what he was seeing, said, "I'll come with you."

Dart held up a hand. "No, Commander. I thank you for offering, but . . . he'd be furious if he knew that you'd been watching. He could never live it down. I'll take care of this myself, and I hope . . . I hope you'll keep this to yourself."

They both left the control room together and parted ways, leaving Cody baffled but adamant that he would not betray what he had just witnessed. Not to anyone.

He walked slowly back towards his room.

If CT-5052's platoon had perished on Ryloth, how was it that he was still alive? Something didn't add up.

The mystery was almost enough to take his mind off the other main issue occupying his thoughts; but as soon as he walked into his room to find Rex still absent, he immediately prioritized that situation over his curiosity regarding 5052.

"Okay, it's four in the morning and you'll still not here. This is making me very angry," Cody groused, not willing to admit that he was starting to grow genuinely concerned.

Then the door opened and in walked Rex.

The lieutenant was surprised to find his roommate up and about, but all he could manage was, "Well, at least I don't have to worry about waking you up."

Cody turned towards him and crossed his arms over his chest. "I was out looking for you."

Rex gave an uncharacteristically nonchalant chuckle. "Did you think I'd pack up and leave?"

Cody was not dissuaded by the attitude, but he wasn't anywhere near to eating crow. He was going to be the commander he'd always been, the commander who had risen through the ranks and now held the reputation of being the best. "I knew you hadn't left. Your stuff was still here."

"Yeah, well, I've come too far to throw it all away now," Rex grunted.

"And you're still pretending like you don't care," Cody noted. "But you're not fooling anyone—least of all, me."

Rex regarded him with an almost plaintive expression. "I've never said I don't care. I've never pretended not to care. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't what I wanted." A pause as he began to undress, tossing his uniform on the back of the chair – a sloppy habit that he had never before displayed. "But I'll tell you what I _never_ wanted: I never wanted to see my brothers turn against me. My men—" His voice caught for a split-second, "—whoever's in my charge at any given time . . . they're all that matters to me, Commander. I'd give my life for any of them in a heartbeat. Then to be told that I'm not good enough to lead them—"

"No one said that, Rex."

"Then you weren't listening closely enough to the colonel," Rex shook his head. "I'm just ready for this to be over so I can go back to the 729th. I won't be endangering anyone there. They all have the same attitude I have."

"Well, right now, your attitude is spoiled and petulant," Cody said with a grin that was not well-received.

Rex scowled at him. "Look, I got your message. You don't have to keep pounding it home."

And suddenly, Cody felt a pang of worry tweak his insides.

The fire.

The fire was . . . gone. Extinguished.

Or at the very least, starved for fuel.

He was beginning to feel as if he were looking at a different man, a different Rex. And although he had been hoping for change, he was not sure that a change for the best was in the making.

 _ **Flak Bait is the actual nickname of a WWII aircraft that I saw at the Dulles Air and Space Museum this past weekend when they opened the refurbishment hangar to visitors. It was the aircraft with the most bombing missions over Europe and just full of flak damage. I decided to incorporate it here.**_


	72. Chapter 71

_**Dear Reader, Thank you all very much for the reviews: Ms CT-782, the Unnamed Guest, Guest, FreedomPhantom, Sued, LionTalon, and ts-animalgirl. That was just what I needed to get back on track! This chapter wraps up the Bly backstory. I also include direct quotes from the U.S. Soldier's Code.**_

Chapter 71 The Soldier's Code

" _I am a member of my Nation's chosen soldiery, I serve quietly, not seeking recognition or accolades. My goal is to succeed in my mission - and live to succeed again."_

U.S. Special Forces Creed

"Last. Dead last. Dead-fekking-last." CT-5576 groaned. "I don't believe it."

"Yeah. Not just last of the four teams in our race. Last of all eight teams," CT-9090 added. "How the hell did that happen?"

"It's like he wasn't even trying," 5576 replied. "Like he just wanted to get it over with."

CT-390 shook his head. "Yeah, so we went from being the team that ran on risk to the team that walks on eggshells. It's a complete turnaround. This isn't like Rex at all."

"He's been acting that way all day," 8448 noted. "Whatever happened in the commandant's office yesterday must have really put the dampers on him."

Echo team – minus their squad leader– was on their way back to their billets in the ARC lodging wing. They had just finished their retake of the TACON exercise, finishing an unimpressive last place with the slowest speed of all eight teams. No sooner had they returned to the hangar than their squad leader had taken off ahead of them, completely disinterested in any discussion of the second race. In fact, other than to give commands during the rerun, he had spoken hardly a word, offering only several oblique remarks about, "just getting it done."

"You think they threatened to kick him out?" 1550 queried.

"Not a chance," 2025 replied. "Not Rex."

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," 2025 said. Up ahead, he saw Commander Cody and several other trainees preceding them to the quarters. "I'll see you all at dinner. 5576, join me?"

The two of them caught up with the commander.

"Commander Cody, can we have a word with you?"

"Sure." Cody hung back to join them. "What's on your mind?" he asked, even though he already had a very good idea of what was on their minds.

"Do you know what's up with Rex? He was a completely different man when we ran the race today," 2025 said. "He wasn't even trying to win. He only wanted to finish, and he didn't care if we came in dead last. That's not like him."

"And he really didn't want anything to do with us," 5576 added. "He was upbeat when we finished – well, when they called the race yesterday. And then today, he's been acting as if he couldn't care less."

"Did something happen in the commandant's office yesterday?" 2025 asked.

Cody considered for a moment before answering. At length, he replied with a manufactured grin. "Well, we all got our asses chewed. And we deserved it. Give him a day. He'll get over it. By the time E&E starts, he'll be right back to his old self."

"I hope so. E&E is supposed to be brutal. We need him back," 2025 stated.

Cody nodded. "I wouldn't worry over it."

But as he parted ways with the two Echo Squad troopers and continued on towards the quarters, he found himself having difficulty following his own advice. The change in Rex was unmistakable, and he had to admit that he was somewhat surprised by it.

Rex had always seemed to stay aloft by virtue of his own buoyancy. He'd certainly not given the appearance of needing anyone – for moral or physical support. He'd been his own engine, his own fuel source, and his own guidance system. He'd bandied the rules about in the same way a Hutt bandied the truth. He had the artless charm of a Weequay pirate and the cunning to match.

And if CT-5576 was correct and Rex had been not in the least disturbed by the halting of the race yesterday – and in fact, had been in good spirits even after the commandant's dressing down—then it stood to reason that whatever had gotten under Rex's skin could be traced rather neatly back to Cody's reprimand and . . . er, less than orthodox method of getting through his roommate's thick skull.

If that were the case, then Cody would have to be the one to put things aright.

Fortunately, for Cody, he was good at putting things back together.

When the commander got back to the room, it was to find Rex taking off his armor.

"Well, you got out of there in a hurry," Cody stated.

"I didn't see any reason to stick around," Rex replied. "We completed the race. That was the goal."

"Yeah, a rather dismal performance on your part," Cody prodded.

"Maybe," Rex conceded disinterestedly. "But we didn't get disqualified. I played by the rules."

Cody leaned against the wall, a smirk on his face. "And that's the way you're going to play it from now on? The man who lives by the rules?" His tone rode just on the edge of sarcasm, making it difficult to figure out what kind of response he was looking for.

But Rex wasn't trying to discern the meaning behind the commander's words. He replied frankly and with a shadow of the ego that could not bear to be long-squelched. "Live by them or die by them. Those seem to be the only acceptable choices." A pause, and when he spoke again, his words betrayed the fact that he was not as indifferent as he was attempting to show himself. "I won't introduce anything new into the mix."

"It's too late for that," Cody stated. "You already have." His smirk stretched into an unforced grin. "For better or worse."

Rex set his armor on its stand. "You would say that. Non-committal, as always. Better. Worse. You can't decide."

Cody shook his head. "You know, you're making this awfully difficult."

"What?"

"I'm trying to apologize without being forced to eat too much crow," Cody replied.

"Apologize for what? For saying what was on your mind?"

"No," Cody averred. "I meant what I said, but I could probably have found a . . . nicer way to say it. And I shouldn't have decked you. Sorry 'bout that."

Rex turned, fixed him for a moment with a dismissively telling glare, then returned to his armor. "You're insulting me."

"Well, I didn't mean to be violent—"

"Oh, for fek's sake—" One of the rare foul utterances to come from the lieutenant. "—we're soldiers. And we're men. If we can't take a little tap like that, we shouldn't be on the battlefield."

This snide rejoinder, meant to return the insult in its own falsely subtle manner, was a step forward, much to Cody's relief. The fire might not be burning, but there was still an ember buried somewhere inside.

"Next time, I'll try to hit you a little harder," Cody jibed. He let a few seconds pass. "Where did you go last night?"

"Nowhere," came the stubbornly useless reply.

"Well, you must have gone somewhere. I looked all over for you."

"I left the compound," Rex answered.

Cody was somewhat surprised by this answer. "Where did you go?"

Rex sat down on the end of the bed and drew in a deep breath as he turned to regard his roommate with a meaningful expression – his first since last night's fiasco. "Someplace where I could feel free."

And Cody understood his meaning.

Understood it all too well.

* * *

"E&E report time is an hour from now. Why, by the moons of Hembred, would the commandant be calling us to his office now?" Cody wondered out loud.

It was late afternoon the following day. And while most of the clones were prepping for E&E departure to one of nine different land ranges, Cody and Rex had been summoned to Colonel Claw's office. Neither one of them knew why, and both men were anxiously puzzled.

When they arrived outside his office and found Commander Wolffe and CT-5052 both waiting in the hall, the mood among the four men soured palpably.

"Great. The four of us called in?" Wolffe growled. "We're getting kicked out. There's no other reason they'd call the four of us in together." He glared at Rex and CT-5052. "This is your fault. You two blew it for the rest of us and now—"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Cody warned. "Let's wait and see what the commandant has to say."

A moment later, the door opened and Major Tides gestured for them to come inside.

Colonel Claw sat behind his desk. Commander Steed stood at his shoulder.

"Gentlemen, I'll make this quick," the commandant announced. "The four of you are very impressive. As individuals. As leaders of your squads. But an ARC trooper needs to be able to work wherever he's assigned, with whomever he's assigned to support. He needs to be able to adapt his own leadership style to fit the situation and the unit he's working with." A pause. "No matter whether he likes the job or the people he's supporting."

Cody felt his blood pressure rising. Maybe they really were being thrown out – and that would be a humiliation he could never live down. But what came out of the commandant's mouth next might have been an even worse prospect.

"With that in mind, since the four of you seem to . . . need an added incentive to work together, I've ordered a change in the E&E exercise."

" _By the Force, he wouldn't . . . "_

"You will all be together in the same squad. Pick one man from your own squads to go with you."

" _Unbelievable!"_

The commandant grinned in wily manner. "Make it a Shinie."

"But Sir," Wolffe protested, "What about our squads? They'll only be eight men—"

"They'll be fine minus two," Claw replied. "I think it's more important that some of you start to recognize that this isn't an army of one. Dismissed."

As they left the room, CT-5052 grumbled loud enough to be heard. "I would have rather just been dismissed from training."

In the silence of his thoughts, Rex agreed, _"That makes two of us."_

* * *

"Okay, boys! This is your drop-off point! You can use the mock wreckage for whatever supplies you want to take with you." These instructions came from the E&E team technical sergeant aboard the gunship that brought Indigo Squad – as the new makeshift grouping was named – to its starting point. "The exercise doesn't start until precisely at midnight. So, anything you do prior to that won't be monitored by the E&E team – only central control. There's no leaving the site until midnight. That's when the search and evasion phase begins. The rendez-vous/safe zone is thirty-five kilometers northeast. You'll find that information in the wreckage. You have four days to get there. After that, the scenario will be halted. Any questions?"

There were none.

The eight members of Indigo Squad jumped down from the gunship, and it soared up and away over the tree tops.

Rex took in his surroundings for several seconds before moving.

They were deep in a forest of tall, spindly trees with bushy crops of foliage near their tops which formed a sporadic canopy. In the waning glow of late evening, the angled rays of light stretched long and red and dust-filled through the trees, showing a healthy but not overwhelming undergrowth of prickly thickets and feather-like ferns waving even in the absence of wind.

About ten meters from where he stood was a "crashed" Nu-class attack shuttle. The supposition, of course, and the premise for the exercise was that the clones had crashed behind enemy lines and now had to make it to a safe zone, a rendez-vous point where they would be picked up by friendly forces.

They were permitted to carry their personal weapons – though these were the personal weapons provided by the cadre, permanently set to stun – but if an E&E team member was hit, he would be treated as if dead and prohibited from continuing to participate in the exercise.

Anything else – as the tech sergeant had said – would have to be salvaged from the ship, which naturally was resupplied for every exercise to mimic what they could reasonably expect the ship to contain.

The rest of the make-shift squad had already gone to the ship and were scavenging through the remains. Only Rex's Echo squad mate, Shinie CT-9218, hung back at his side.

"What do you make of it, Lieutenant?" 9218 asked. "Should we go take a look? Get some supplies?"

Before Rex answered, Cody called out, "This is a team effort. We need everyone's help."

Rex and 9218 joined them.

An hour of digging through the ship's contents produced some meager foodstuffs – mostly nutrient bars and water tablets, though there were a dozen ready pacs; three HOPOs; three scanners with navigational adaptors; foil blankets; extra charge packs for half a dozen weapons; and two hard-copy topographical maps.

"Well, this looks like plenty to get us underway," Wolffe stated. "But if we get split up, some of us might not have the gear needed to find the safe zone."

"I think we need to split up from the start," Cody proposed. "All eight of us moving together. That will be hard to keep hidden. We stand a better chance breaking into teams."

With a wary voice, Wolffe inquired, "How do you suggest we split up?"

"We can't go in pairs," Cody replied. "There aren't enough scanners. Three, three, and two."

Now, both Rex and 5052 were skeptical.

"The breakdown?" 5052 asked.

Cody knew his leadership was about to be put to the test. "Commander Wolffe will take two of the Shinies. I'll take the other two. And you two will go together."

"There's no way, Commander," 5052 protested right away. "I refuse to work with him."

Cody stepped up face-to-face. "You won't refuse to work with him. Let me be clear about this. The only reason—the _only_ reason we've been put together like this in the first place is because of _you_ and _him._ You're both the cause of this, and neither of you are about to dictate terms. Not to me, not to Commander Wolffe, and not to any of these other troops. You two either figure out your problems as a team, or you can fail on your own."

"There's no rank among ARC trainees," 5052 pointed out.

Cody took a step closer. "Wanna bet?"

CT-5052 backed down, mumbling something unintelligible as he turned away.

"Good," Cody said with a firm nod. Then to everyone, "The sun's going down and it's starting to cool off. There's a fire pit over there. CT-9218, CT-2876, get something going."

As the two Shinies took off to accomplish their mission and the others set about various tasks, Cody caught Rex's glance for a moment . . .

. . . and the look of disgust and doubt on his face.

* * *

The nice thing about armor—well, it was really the body suit and not the armor itself—was that it regulated body temperature. The intricate micro fibers that captured and held in or dissipated body heat would trip the solsatic molecules in the garment, cueing the release or capture of heat and thus maintain a safe body temperature. For a period of time, at least.

Owing to this marvel of engineering, there was really no need for a fire other than to hopefully keep any wild animals away.

And the fact that Cody enjoyed a good blaze, given his fond memories of a mission with General Kenobi to negotiate with a primitive tribe, the Gra'untaheh, on the outer rim planet of Simbul. His recollections of the general seated on a worn and smooth log on one side of the fire, working his diplomatic magic to bring about an agreement to stage a stealth recon team out of the tribe's ancestral lands – that fireside chat, an attempt to achieve what had seemed unattainable, had left a solid, positive image in Cody's mind; and he thought it might come in handy now, given the circumstances.

Since making his team assignments, he'd noticed without surprise that Rex and 5052 had not said a word to each other. They sat on opposite sides of the fire, as if trying to convince Cody by their own recalcitrance that his decision to pair them up was a mistake.

But Cody, despite Rex's accusations of indecisiveness, was most definitely decided on this one. And no amount of sulking was going to move him.

The sun had long gone down and darkness set in when Cody decided it was time to go over a few mission details.

"So, we know some of us are going to get caught," he began. "And some of us are going to end up going through ARC's version of captivity and torture. I think it's a good idea to review the code of conduct." A pause. "CT-1789, Article Three."

CT-1789, from Crimson Squad, answered readily. "If I am captured I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and aid others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy."

"Excellent," Cody nodded approvingly. "CT-2303, Article Four."

CT-2303 was Commander's Wolffe's Shinie, and he got to his feet to give his answer. "If I become a prisoner of war, I will keep faith with my fellow prisoners. I will give no information or take part in any action which might be harmful to my comrades. If I am senior, I will take command. If not, I will obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me and will back them up in every way."

Cody looked to CT-9218. "Article Five."

"When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give name, rank, service and batch numbers. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause."

CT-2876, Cody's Shinie, was next with Article Six. "I will never forget that I am a soldier in the Grand Army of the Republic, fighting for freedom, responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which make the galaxy free. I will trust in my fellow troopers and in the Republic."

Rex was actually proud of the Shinies.

"Rex . . . Article Two?"

Rex raised an eyebrow, surprised that Cody would call on him. But he had too much pride to act miffish. He got to his feet. "I will never surrender of my own free will. If in command, I will never surrender the members of my command while they still have the means to resist."

CT-5052 made a snide face, partly hidden, partly illuminated in the firelight.

"CT-5052. Article One."

CT-5052 regarded him with a defiant look, and it appeared for a moment that he might not answer. But at last, he spoke slowly and with biting words, never taking his eyes from the commander's.

"I am a soldier of the Republic, fighting in the forces which guard our galaxy and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense." He got to his feet. "And that is all a crock of osik."

"Lieutenant—" Cody began, but 5052 went on speaking.

"Only a fool willingly gives his life for someone else – a fool or—or someone who just wants to be called hero. I'm fekking sick of people pretending to be heroes!" Gesturing towards Rex, he seethed, "And him? He'll never surrender? He'll never surrender his troopers _while they still have the means to resist_? No, of course, he'll never surrender. He'd rather go out in a blaze of glory and take every damned one of his men with him. And then they'll call him a hero! And you put me with this bastard?"

It was such an unexpected outburst that Cody was too stunned for words for several seconds. When he did recover his voice, his first words were to the Shinies. He sent them off to _patrol_ , ostensibly. It was clear he had other motivations.

No sooner had the Shinies moved off than Rex launched into an angry tirade.

"What the hell is wrong with you?! I haven't done a thing to you that should make you hate me this much! You've been badmouthing me since the first day of training! Why are you always trying to sink me?!"

CT-5052, instead of replying in kind, suddenly appeared to have the wind sucked out of his sails. He fell quiet and replied in a deflated voice. "I'm not trying to sink you."

"Then what? Why do you hate me so much? Why do you want me to fail?"

CT-5052 shook his head. "I don't want you to fail." After several seconds, he added reluctantly, "To own the truth, there's probably no one else I'd rather have beside me in a tight spot."

"Huh! That's not what you just said," Rex pointed out. "You made it clear that you wanted nothing to do with me, and that's okay, because I want nothing to do with you. Just—just tell me why you've been ragging on me from day one."

There was a long silence during which it was not clear what CT-5052 was going to do or say. It seemed just as likely that he would walk away as answer. When he did finally speak, it was not what any of them had expected.

Looking Rex in the eye, he asked in a perfectly neutral voice, "How many of your batchers are still alive?"

Rex drew back, perplexed. He hesitated then replied, "They were all alive when I left, and I hope they'll all be alive when I get back."

"And I'll bet they're all just like you," 5052 said in a mildly accusatory voice. "Overly confident, arrogant, larger-than-life, courageous." A pause. "Heroes."

"So, what's wrong with that?" Rex challenged. "That's the kind of man I want serving at my side."

CT-5052 turned away. "I knew a bunch of men just like that, just like you. The best men I ever knew." There was a tremor in his voice. "But when it came time to make a difficult decision, they chose . . . they chose to leave me behind. My batchers chose to leave me behind."

Rex, not a man with a great deal of sympathy or patience, showed little of either. "Look, whatever decision they made, you're still here, so it couldn't have been that bad."

Cody reached out and placed a subtle hand on Rex's arm to silence him.

"What happened on Ryloth?" the commander asked.

"Huh! I thought everyone already knew the story," 5052 said bitterly.

"We don't know _your_ story."

"There's not much to tell," 5052 shrugged, still refusing to face them. "My platoon went in to evacuate as many of the Twi'leks as possible from the villages. The Separatists were advancing. The gunships couldn't get in for the last pickup, my platoon." A pause. "Everyone on the ground was killed."

Cody decided to go out on a limb. He'd promised himself he wouldn't do this, but under the circumstances, he thought this might be the only opportunity to open whatever doors 5052 had shut on the past. "But you were on the ground. I saw you running the scenario with Captain Dart. You said they left you behind, but . . . if they all died, how did you survive?"

CT-5052 now turned and stared at him in stunned silence for a long, agonizing moment.

At last, he said, "I wasn't on the ground." He swallowed. "I was air liaison for that mission. I was aboard the ship. My platoon leader—when my platoon leader—he called us off, ordered us to go back. He thought it was too dangerous, and we'd taken fire . . . " He raised his hands and rubbed his palms over his eyes as if the very telling of the tale was exhausting. "He sacrificed—they all sacrificed their lives so that we'd be safe. They—they never thought how I would feel to be the only one to survive . . . "

"Then . . . then why were you on the ground in the scenario?" Cody asked gently, and when he received no answer, he pressed, "Bly?"

CT-5052's head shot up. "Where did you hear that? No one calls me that anymore."

"Captain Dart does." A pause. "Why were you on the ground?"

"Because—because I wanted to know what it felt like to be the hero, to be the one who sacrifices everything to save one brother . . . fek . . . they didn't think they were leaving me behind. They thought they were saving me. And I hate them for it." His voice fell off miserably.

Cody waited for these words to sink in. "They did save you," he said quietly. "They cared enough not to want you to come into a hopeless situation. That's what brotherhood is about."

"I understand that," Bly groaned. "But don't you get it? They were everything to me. Now, they're gone. When you all leave here, you have something to go back to. I haven't had anything to go back to since the second month of the war." He looked at Rex. "That's why I hated you. You're just like them. You'd run any risk, take any chance . . . and I could tell . . . you'd give your own life if it meant saving your men. Saving even just one." He was losing his composure. "But when this is over, you have your men to go back to."

Rex was dumbfounded, speechless.

It was Cody who replied. "We all lose brothers. It's the nature of what we do. We're going to lose a lot more before the war is over. But your family isn't limited to your batchers. I know they hold a special place, but we're all your family. We're your squad now. And when we've all gone off to our own assignments, we'll still be your squad. We'll still be your family."

Wolffe stepped forward and placed a hand on Bly's shoulder. "Yep, one big mug-ugly family."

Rex nodded.

"And not all of us will be going back to our platoons after this," Cody reminded him. "A lot of ARCs get reassigned where they're needed. Coming to ARC training means accepting that fact."

"It doesn't make a difference to me where I go," Bly replied.

At this, Rex found his voice. "It does make a difference. You're going to be leading men. They're going to be _your_ men. You can't short-change them because of what happened to your batchers. And you can't go on being angry at your batchers, either. You tarnish their memory and the sacrifice they made by resenting them for it. They thought you were worth it. Prove them right."

Bly did not look convinced, but he did not argue. He gave a minute nod.

Wolffe brought them back to the task at hand. "It's almost midnight."

Zero hour.

I originally had Gree in this scene as well, but not in the rewrite. You may recall this was alluded to in an earlier chapter while Rex was still on Bertegad at the Monastica.


	73. Chapter 72

_**Dear Reader, at last I have found the time to finish the editing on this chapter and post this. Full disclosure: everything that happens in the this chapter and the next several is taken from a friend's account of actual E &E training and mock POW camp. Some of it I embellish, as you will see; but the basics are genuine. Enjoy! CS**_

Chapter 72 Preparing the Ground

" _Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled,  
and one arm bent across your sullen, cold  
exhausted face? It hurts my head to watch you."_

 _The Dugout  
_ Siegfried Sassoon

* * *

"Down! Stay down!"

Bly recognized the tone in Rex's voice – anger and frustration under the constraints of reasonable self-control – reasonable as far as Rex went. The first day of E&E was expected to be rough, but it was just part and parcel of the deprivations and stress, both physical and mental, of the days to come. Every trainee knew that, no matter how taxing the escape and evasion phase might be, the torment of capture and interrogation would be far worse. A four-day long flight through the wilds was a far better prospect than being captured right at the start of the course.

Still, it was a rare case when more than one or two soldiers made their way to the safe zone. The Pursuit and Interrogation (PI) teams that ran the various E&E courses had ominous reputations for letting less than two percent of all their students make a successful passage. The infamy of their prisoner-of-war camp mockups were held in even more awe. Whatever else was said of them, the E&E leadership team was exceedingly capable, an elitist group, taught to value their own abilities above all others. During the pursuit phase, they showed themselves as master trackers, indefatigable and driven by a lust for the chase. Once a prisoner was in their hands, they exercised great zeal in the performance of their roles as interrogators and administers of torture, albeit a watered down version suitable for training purposes.

Presiding over the E&E operations was Captain Skidz. He had worked hard to garner his current position; and despite some lingering bitterness over his initial field assignment, he was a man of great persuasive ability and single-minded drive in pursuit of whatever ambition topped his list at any given moment. He was fully committed to being the best at whatever endeavor he chose to undertake, no matter what the cost to himself or others. He was competitive, arch, and shrewd. And in many ways, he was like the man he most despised, his former podmate, CT-7567.

The two of them both commanded astounding loyalty from their troops, although the basis for their men's dedication could not be further apart. Skidz's tactics revolved around the purchase of loyalty. He showered his soldiers with commendations and awards, put his men in for early advancement, all manner of training schools, and temporary duty to exotic locations. He gave every appearance of being a caring and devoted officer, and perhaps on some level he was.

He was a good fit in the E&E regimen. He had multiple teams assigned to him, and he regarded each as the best. Indeed, one day as a prisoner was more than enough to convince anyone that the PI teams took their job seriously; and every trainee coming through ARC training expected to be captured.

Except Rex.

Rex could not speak first-hand of the tortures. In basic training, he had not been captured at the E&E training every cadet went through. And at the advanced infantry officer course, he'd avoided capture as well. Somehow, he had managed to hit the checkpoints, secure the objectives, and reach the designated rendez-vous.

He expected this time would be more difficult but that he would emerge successful once again. With or without Bly. With or without the possibility that his former nemesis and now E&E commander might be gunning for him.

He and Bly had parted ways with the rest of their squad nearly two hours ago; and if there was one positive thing Rex could say about his companion, it was that Bly was fast. Perhaps not as stealthy as may have been desirable; but his speed was impressive. Added to that was his desire to be victorious and a less articulated desire to show up his team mate, and he made a surprisingly good partner. All of which, Rex appreciated more than he let on, for he was still not sure exactly where he stood with regard to his relationship with his fellow lieutenant. Still, he was glad to have a clear-headed and steady companion at his side for this part of training.

Now, only two hours into the exercise, he and Bly had already run into opposition. These first hours were usually the most dangerous when the squad was concentrated in one area, at their most vulnerable. Cody's idea to split up had been a good one, but it appeared that the route Rex and Bly had taken was already under surveillance. Rex had caught a slight movement in the undergrowth about thirty meters ahead of their current position.

" _Pursuit, my ass_ ," Rex grumbled internally, then in a whisper, "They're supposed to be chasing us, and they're already in place in front of us."

"I only see two," Bly replied in a low voice. "We might be able to lay low. If not . . . we have the blaster."

"Let's hunker down and see if they pass us."

As a tactic, it was successful. The patrol, wide-spread, never came within twenty yards, and as soon as they were passed and out of ear-shot, the two trainees scurried through the woods in the opposite direction.

The first day and night passed in relative peace with only the cold and rain to contend with. The following day, they came to the site of the first objective – a radio transmitter hidden inside a derelict stone hut – and finding the area clear of aggressors, they entered to find the objective had already been taken.

"One down," Rex remarked.

"Assuming our guys got it and not the PI team," Bly said.

"They said they weren't allowed to take the objectives," Rex pointed out. "I just hope our guys didn't get captured taking it."

"You know they're never going to let any of us make it to the rendez-vous," Bly asserted. "They've probably got their micro-cameras on us now."

"Don't be so negative," Rex chided. "Maybe we'll be the first team to ever make it to the pickup point."

"You live in your own world," Bly grunted dismissively.

They moved away from the location, and at what they considered a safe distance, took a moment to scarf down some rations and catch an hour of rest.

Early in the morning on the third day, before sunrise and after the setting of the planet's second moon, the relatively easy going of the pair was abruptly shattered. Coming to the location of the second objective, and discovering it gone, Rex felt satisfied that his squad mates had taken it. Bly was certain the PI team had beat them to it.

"Either way, no sense in hanging about here," Bly stated. "Let's push on."

His words were followed on the instant by the report of a blaster, which split the darkness in half and woke up the sleeping woodland. Suddenly, the whole place was filled with the sound of blaster fire.

"Run!" Rex ordered. "Don't take cover! Just run! We can lose them in the dark!"

Bly understood his companion's thinking. Taking cover would invite certain capture if a search were conducted. Two lightly armed men stood no chance against a more heavily armed sweep of the area. Flight, on the other hand, carried out in the dark, would remove them from the immediate threat and was more likely to ensure their safety.

Rex followed his own advice and ran as well. He ran until the sweat poured down his sides; and even with his helmet's night vision activated, he was tripped up so many times in his dark dash that his progress was reduced to a series of clumsy stints between falls until the sound of the commotion he had left behind faded to little more than an echo.

When, at last, he felt he was far enough away to be safe, he made a controlled tumble into a large hollow left by an uprooted tree. There he lay, catching his breath and listening carefully for indications that anyone might be near him – Bly or the enemy. It did not take him long to conclude that he was alone or to come to terms with his anger. He had not suspected the aggressors would still be watching the site of objective already claimed. He had been careless, but he did not overlook the implications of what had happened. The aggressors had enough men to spare that they could watch the objective sites _after_ the objective had been taken. Clearly, the PI team's goal was to catch all of the squad members, not necessarily to prevent them taking the objectives.

" _What if Bly's right? What if the others have all been caught already? Where is Bly, anyway?"_

The two had gotten separated in their flight from the aggressors, and now Rex had no idea where his team mate was. He feared the worst.

" _If he's been caught—if they've all been caught, that means the entire unit can come after me. Skidz would like that. Fine. Let them come."_

Rex stayed where he was in the hollow, his adrenaline warding off the persistent call of sleep. He waited to see if Bly would reconnect with him, but when the first glimpses of sunlight began making distinctions among the trees, he decided he had waited long enough.

He set out again. In the dark after his race through the forest, Rex had become disoriented, but now he regained his bearings using the directional features built into his HUD, and so he began the long, arduous trek up a fair-sized forested hill, at the top of which was supposed to be the third objective. By mid-morning he had reached the spot but was careful not to get too close this time. From a discreet distance, he could see that the objective—a cache of edible rations—was not there. He gave the site a wide berth and began descending the other side of the hill. He was nearly halfway down when the ground beneath his feet gave way and he began to fall into a pit that had been covered with cardboard and camouflaged with dirt, rocks, and fallen leaves. It had been virtually indistinguishable from the forest floor.

As soon as he felt himself falling, he threw his weight to one side and caught the edge of the pit with his elbow. Bracing himself with his forearms, he stopped the fall through sheer strength and scrambled to safety.

Below and behind him, he heard a familiar voice. "Lieutenant Rex!"

Rex turned to see CT-2303, Commander Wolffe's shinie, trapped in the pit which was at least three meters deep. There were bruises on the Shinie's neck and face that leaped out and grabbed Rex's attention, refusing to let go. He stood frozen, looking down at 2303 with an anger that was disproportionate to the moment – and he didn't know why. Several seconds passed before he realized that 2303 was speaking urgently.

"Sir, go! They're watching this spot! Leave now, Sir!"

Rex pulled himself together. He was not about to leave without 2303. "Give me your hands," he ordered, lying on his stomach and reaching down as far into the pit as he could.

"Sir, there's no time! They're waiting for you! _For you_! I heard them talking – you're the top priority! Sir, you have to go!"

"Not without you," Rex replied in a voice that would brook no debate. "Now, take my hands. Can you reach?"

Without another word, 2303 sprang upwards, clasped Rex's hands, and scrabbling against the wall of the pit, managed to get to the top where he got quickly to his knees.

"Come on," Rex urged, gripping his arms, ready to pull him to his feet.

2303 looked up, and Rex saw his eyes go wide a split-second before the Shinie's shouted warning. Rex had barely begun to turn, to see what it was behind him that 2303 had seen, when something solid and heaving caught him in the side of the head. He landed on his side, stunned, but only momentarily. He reached instinctively for the pistol he normally wore at his waist, forgetting it was not there; but it was of no matter, for the instant he made the move, someone fell on him from behind and flattened him against the ground. Rex rolled forcefully to one side, dislodging his attacker. He caught sight of 2303 being hauled to his feet by two men, fighting them violently until the butt of a blaster rifle in the Shinie's gut dropped him to his knees, where he stayed hunched over.

Rex felt a surge of rage and bucked off his attacker, who then attempted to regain control by wrapping his arms around Rex's body, pinning his arms to his sides. Against a weaker man, the tactic might have worked, but Rex simply broke the man's bear hug and elbowed him in the mouth, splitting his lip.

That was the last time Rex would have the upper hand. The forest around the pit had been hiding place to at least a dozen other aggressors. Now they converged, each of them wanting a part in the capture of the man whose reputation alone was worth the contest.

Rex found himself quickly surrounded, and having been taught in Basic E&E not to fight or do anything to provoke a harsh reaction from his captors in a situation which was likely to lead to capture anyway he was dragged down with only a token show of resistance and forced onto his stomach, where his helmet was removed, his wrists bound behind him and a coarse cloth wound around his head as a blindfold.

All things considered, he had come through the encounter rather well – a couple bruises and only a slight knot on the side of his head, thanks to the protection of his helmet. But he was not fooled. He'd seen what they had done to 2303, and that, he feared, was more along the lines of what lay in store for him – and the rest of the squad.

He was led through the woods by a thin nylon rope tied loosely around his neck. With no one to guide his footsteps or steady him on the uneven terrain, he fell often; and being unable to brace himself, he fell hard. Behind him was 2303 – he could tell by the sound of awkward footsteps and the occasional sound of a tumbling body. The Shinie must be bound and blindfolded as well.

Two hours after starting their forced hike, which had been filled with taunts, insults and some minor bullying, they came to a transport and were loaded in the back, where they were made to lie on their stomachs. Some time later the truck came to a halt and its prisoner cargo of two unloaded.

His wrists were freed and both the armor and body suit were stripped from his body. It was a common tactic, designed to induce a sense of vulnerability and humiliation. He had to admit, standing naked in the cold, that it was fairly effective measure. His wrists were again bound, and he was led on another short, sightless walk to a place where he could hear the sounds of much subdued movement. When his escorts brought him to a halt, a rope was tied around his waist. His wrists, still bound behind him, were threaded with another rope, the other end of which was affixed to Rex knew not what.

After standing in silent stillness for nearly two minutes, Rex spoke softly. "Who's there?"

"Lieutenant Rex?"

Rex recognized his fellow Echo Squad member, Shinie 9218

"9218?"

"Yes, Sir, it's me."

"Who else is here? Can you see?"

"No, Sir. I'm blindfolded, but I was caught along with CT-2303, and I'm not sure if they caught Commander Wolffe. We got separated when we were trying to run—" His voice broke off abruptly at the same instant that Rex felt a violent impact against his shoulder that knocked him off his feet. As he fell, the rope around his waist tightened painfully; and his arms, still tethered by the wrists to some object behind him, were twisted at such bizarre angles that he actually screamed, until he realized that screaming was drowning him.

He pushed along the ground, trying to find a position that eased the stress on his arms and shoulders. At the same time, he processed what was happening. He and the other prisoners were being sprayed by water from high pressure hoses. The water was bitter cold, but the sheer force as it struck the hapless men made it feel like the agony of fire. No matter how Rex moved, he could not escape the streams of direct and deflected water battering his body and filling his mouth and nose. The very real panic of suffocation curled his body into protective ball.

The rope at his waist, he realized, was tied around the wrists of the man in front of him; and like a snare, every time the other man moved, the rope drew tighter or slackened. Likewise, the rope around his own wrists was fastened at the other end around the waist of the man behind him. It was a foolproof way to make sure none of the prisoners escaped during the dousing, but it was also a cruel and pain-inflicting strategy, making it a very effective introduction to life in the prison camp.

It did not last long – no more than one minute; and when it was over, there were more than a few grunts and groans of discomfort and pain. Now that the torment was over, Rex began to take stock of the damage. Other than feeling cold, water-logged, and bruised all over, the only other immediately noticeable pain was in his left shoulder, which had taken the initial blast of water. It was going to be trouble – he could tell that already. A low and unremitting pounding vibrated deep inside the muscle, clear down to the bone. It was the kind of injury Rex had entertained before in other parts of his body, and he knew that as long as the muscle was spared any further stress for a week or two, the injury would heal up as if it had never happened. He also knew that the likelihood of clemency over the next several days was virtually nonexistent.

After a few seconds, he became aware of the rope digging painfully into his waist, but he now found that could not unfurl his body without intensifying the pain. And so he remained still until two pairs of hands jerked him upright to his knees. For a split-second the pain burst from his lips as the pressure at both his waist and on his arms increased with the movement. Then there was a release, the acute subsiding into the dull. The pressure was gone. The ropes which had tethered him to the other men were severed, leaving only his wrists still secured at his back.

"Come on, prisoner." It was the voice of one of the men holding him. "We've got something special in store for you."

Rex was led away from the tangle of his squad mates towards something he could only guess at, something surely meant to be dreaded; and as he was hustled along towards whatever awaited, a bizarre combination of relief and anxiety rippled across his conscience. Relief because he could not bear the thought of having to witness the torture – even contrived torture – of his squad mates. Anxiety due to the competing voice that told him he should be strong enough to support his brothers through any trial. What would happen to them without him?

And what would happen to him without them? Rex knew that by isolating him, the cadre would prove its point about the reality of prison camps, that by splitting up prisoners and preventing contact of any sort, a man's will could be broken. The staff at the E&E school, Rex assured himself, only wanted to emphasize – with the greatest staying power – the brutality of the enemy. And what the students experienced here was only a fraction of the cruelty they could expect if they were ever to become true prisoners of war. Not that the Separatists often took prisoners.

Rex did not intend to succumb to the terrors of the E&E regimen. He would not be the one to break down under its tortures. He had made it through before, as a cadet, without getting caught. And now, even though he'd been captured, he could withstand the interrogation portion.

He tried to remember this rationalization as he was hurried, dripping wet and freezing, across a rough-graveled surface into the knee-deep mire of what had to be, judging from its smell, a livestock wade. Here, his escorts stopped.

"On your knees, prisoner."

Rex did not move. Exercise or not, he had a measure of pride which, despite the humbling experiences of the past few hours, could not be coerced into submission to such an insult; and so he stood in silent expectation of forced compliance.

"Come on, now, Lieutenant" the same voice said. "Don't make this any harder on yourself than it already is."

Rex still did not make any move to comply and quickly found himself pushed to his knees. A powerful shove against his shoulder and he pitched forward. He was up against almost immediately, smeared and spattered with mud and dung from head to foot; yet his attitude was unruffled. He heard some half-hearted laughter around him, and that was when he realized there were more men present than just the two escorts.

"You're not making this very much fun," the first escort said. "We've been hearing about you since the first day of training. We thought you'd make great sport. You're not giving us much to work with. You're so . . . _stoic_."

Rex almost told the voice and its owner to go to hell, but it occurred to him that such a reaction was exactly what they were looking for. He would be playing right into their hands. They wanted him to get angry and lash out, to give them a reason to mistreat him.

Then another thought crept slowly into his awareness.

These men were not treating him as if he were an unknown prisoner of war. They were treating him like the trainee of whom they'd heard so much, a piston that would present a challenge, a pariah that needed to be broken. The thought was mildly disconcerting, for while Rex had expected the course to be tough, he also had held out the belief that the cadre would treat him like any other prisoner. Now, he was not so sure.

For the moment, he remained passive and observant, trying to size up the situation and his captors' intentions. Even as he was tossed down into the mud three more times, held there with a booted foot against his back, kicked and punched in a tentative, probing manner, he maintained his calm and his silence. He would give them no satisfaction and no clue into what was going on in his mind.

Nearly thirty minutes of harassment passed at the livestock wade before his escorts led him on another walk which ended inside a building that was only nominally warmer than outside. His two escorts brought him to a standing halt and moved away. Rex was not sure if they had left him or not, but that wondering became unimportant at the sound of a voice that Rex knew immediately.

"You've never looked better, 7567. Or should I call you _Rex_ now?"

Captain Skidz had a way of turning every word into a sneer. "Although I hardly expected to see you looking quite so good. They've taken it easy on you."

Rex did not respond. He could hear the sound of footsteps moving in a circle around him – Skidz inspecting his prize.

"I didn't believe it when the team leader told me you'd been captured already. I thought you'd last a lot longer. I had to come see for myself." A small, derisive laugh. "But it is you. No doubt about that, is there? It's very exciting."

Rex broke his silence with quiet directness. "I'm supposed to be a prisoner."

"You _are_ a prisoner," came the equally direct reply.

"No, I'm a trophy."

"That, too." A pause. "Don't worry, 7567. I'm not the kind to hold a grudge. My teams just happen to run the most realistic scenarios in all of ARC training. I don't want you or your squad to be dealt short hands. I want you to get the full experience."

"Then get on with it."

"Patience, patience. We're just getting started." The footsteps began circling again. "Besides, I want to savor the next few days. By the time this is over, I think your entire class will see you in a totally different light."

Rex felt a twisted satisfaction. "I don't care how the class sees me."

"But you care how your roommate sees you."

For a brief moment, his words actually struck a chord and rattled Rex's calm. "He can't see me in a worse light than he already does," he ground out.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Skidz replied. "I've got a lot planned for you and your squad. Two days is a long time . . . in E&E." There was a smile in his voice. "Why, I may even request to extend the POW camp to three days. Or four. It will be nice to spend some time together."

With these words, the conversation ended. Rex heard a door open and once again, he was shuffled off by his two escorts through a maze of cold, damp corridors, down an uneven flight of stone stairs, and into a cellar with a dirt floor, wet and slick with moisture. The air in this lower level was sour and fetid, like the air that wafted up through a sewer grate. Rex thought this must be where the prisoners' cells were located, and a moment later his suspicions were confirmed.

"Welcome to your new home, Lieutenant," came the voice of First Escort. Rex's wrists were untied and in one swift motion, he was lifted off his feet and lowered by his arms into a hole in the ground. When his feet touched the bottom, his wrists were bound together again above his head and secured to a metal grate sealing off the top of the hole.

"Make yourself comfortable." A note of pleasure rang in the man's voice, and then everything was silent except for the sound of Rex's own breathing.

After only a few seconds, he discovered how very narrow and confining his prison was, permitting for only a couple inches of movement in any direction. The walls felt greasy against his skin and there were fifteen centimeters or so of water in which he was standing, but at least the heat generated by his body inside the cramped space compensated somewhat for the cold bite in the air.

It was not long before his arms began to ache, and his injured shoulder grew increasingly painful; but no shifting of position afforded any relief. In the growing haze and dullness of his thoughts, time grew indistinct, and he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep only to be awakened by a loud rap on the metal grate above him. As his head jerked up at the sound, he was surprised to realize he had actually fallen asleep.

The first thing to accost his senses was the stiffness. His entire body felt as if it were cast in cement. The second was thirst. How long had it been since he had drank any water? Since he had been taken prisoner. How long ago was that?

He heard the grate shift above him. Suddenly, the pressure on his arms increased and he was pulled out of the hole and placed face-down on the ground. With the abrupt movement returned the pain but at a greater intensity than before. Rex gasped, stifled a more vocal display of pain, then lay without moving while his arms were drawn behind him, the muscles rebelling angrily after having been so long in the forced overhead position.

This time no one spoke, although Rex could somehow sense that one of the men present was First Escort. Apparently, there were two escorts once again, and they pulled Rex to his feet. After a wavering start, they entered the labyrinth of twists and turns once again. The blood that had pooled in Rex's lower body began circulating again with an unpleasant warmth. The walk seemed to go on and on. At last, they came to a halt.

An unfamiliar, non-clone voice, deep and guttural, spoke in front of him.

"Is this my guest of honor?"

The voice that answered with a simple "yes" was definitely First Escort.

"Excellent. Let's get started then, shall we?"


	74. Chapter 73

Chapter 73 Methods

" _The method is solid, but the results can never be guaranteed."_

 _Over and Out  
_ Max Hempershein

* * *

"Over there first."

 _First?_

Rex didn't like the sound of that, but he gave no indication as he was led a few steps forward. His arms were grasped firmly by his escorts as someone untied his hands. He was made to lie face down on top of a long wooden table, and his wrists were bound together underneath while his ankles were placed in close-fitting shackles with his feet hanging over the edge.

He fully expected to receive a beating on his back, so when something hard and thin struck the bottom of his feet, he was taken completely by surprise. It was not particularly painful – at first. A stinging sensation developed after the first dozen blows; but by the time the count reached twenty, with one of the onlookers counting out loud, Rex found himself shaking from the exertion of trying not to cry out against the pain.

"Twenty-one! Twenty-two! Twenty-three!"

Rex struggled to keep his composure intact. Throughout his time as a cadet, most resistance training had been directed towards staving off the effects of shock and plasma interrogation methods – effective methods of torture that caused immense pain but tended not to leave lasting damage. Mind infiltration techniques—long considered too dangerous for use in a training scenario—had found a minor and highly controlled place in training in recent months when administered only by and under the supervision of a Jedi.

The sort of torture he was being subjected to at this moment—the infliction of brute physical pain—was something he would have thought he could handle quite well. But the walls were crumbling fast, and just when one more stroke would have been one too many, the beating stopped.

The tension which had held his body taut against the bonds burst out of him like steam from an engine and he collapsed on top of the table, gasping to catch his breath.

From somewhere beyond the hurt and his dazed senses, he heard the deep voice speaking in a dispassionate tone. "Free his arms."

His wrists were untied and his right arm drawn up behind him, elbow locked.

"Hold him down."

Rex felt at least two bodies press their weight against his back.

Another new voice, this one refined and gentle, spoke with what might have passed for genuine concern. "Any time you want to tell us where the rendez-vous is or how many men you had with you, we'll be ready to listen."

At last, some dialogue that gave the Rex hope that this was truly an exercise in escape and evasion and not just a vindictive assault on him by a former rival. It made him think that he might actually be able to endure their brutal regimen, knowing it was only part of an exercise.

The next moments went a long way towards dashing that hope.

His right arm was forced up until it was perpendicular to his body on the table. The pain in his bruised shoulder was certainly bearable after the beating on his feet, and so he did not even show a grimace.

The arm was rotated a few more centimeters forward.

"We don't want to hurt you. All you have to do is answer a few questions, then we'll let you go free," the gentle voice insisted.

Rex did not reply.

A few more centimeters.

"Where were you supposed to rendez-vous with your friends?"

Again, Rex was silent.

There was a brief pause, then the centimeter-by-centimeter rotation of his arm gave way to a violent thrust that sent cries of desperation from every nerve ending. Rex's breath erupted from his lungs in a piercing scream of pain, and he began fighting. Fighting the metal clamps around his ankles, fighting the two—now three, now four—men pressing him down, fighting the contortionist who was trying to tear his arm from its socket.

It was a hopeless endeavor, reduced finally to a series of pain-induced spasms, as his captors held his head and body flat against the table.

"Where is the rendez-vous?"

For a few seconds, Rex said nothing, then his voice—breathless and strained—sounded in his ears before he even knew he was speaking.

"I don't know."

"Where?" The word came with a further turning of his arm.

A choking sound gurgled up Rex's throat. "S-stop . . . ." he gasped, a tremor roiling through his body. "Th-this isn't right."

"Where?"

But Rex's only response was the weakening repetition of a single word.

"Stop."

* * *

Wolffe opened his eyes and looked about him at the other men sharing his cell. There were five of them now, including himself. Bly and Shinie 1789 were the most recent arrivals, only a few hours present, still bound and blindfolded, secured to the wall by ankle chains. When the next prisoners were brought in, Bly and 1789 would have their blindfolds removed and their wrists untied. Only the ankle chains would remain – like the rest of the cell's occupants.

The commander was starting to understand the way it worked, having the distinction of longevity as a prisoner on this particular exercise. His capture had been immediate, much to his humiliation. He and his two Shinies, 2303 and 9218, had happened upon an enemy patrol in the early morning darkness of the first day. As a diversionary tactic, he had drawn the enemy's pursuit in an attempt to give his Shinies a chance to get away. He'd managed to take out three of them before being surrounded, dragged down and beaten on the spot for having _killed_ the three aggressors. They'd bound him, blindfolded him, and dragged him by his feet through the woods before throwing him into the back of a speeder truck and bringing him to this compound. Here, they'd pummeled him again, beaten him with wooden poles, and closed him inside a metal cage barely large enough to fit a grown man, where he'd remained doubled-over and twisted for hours.

His first contact with other members of the squad had occurred after he'd been brought to this cell and secured to the wall with iron ankle chains. His wrists had been freed, the blindfold had come off, and he'd found himself the sole occupant of a large, dimly lit room made of three stone walls and a door of heavy iron bars. There were no windows, and the light that came from the single naked bulb in the corridor beyond was weak and flickering. The walls were wet and cold. Water dripped from the ceiling. As a form of inflicting misery, it was, as Wolffe had concluded over the past two days, quite effective. Still, it was better to remain in the cell than to be taken from it, since to be removed from the cell meant only interrogation and torture.

Wolffe had been through the same previous E&E courses as his fellow clones, and he'd been captured every time. And every time, he'd hated it. Every time, he was done over. Every time, the severity of realism seemed to increase. This time was no exception, and he could not remember ever having been so abused in all his previous training cycles. But then again, this was ARC training. As he'd watched the other members of his squad trickle in, he saw that he was not the only recipient of brutal treatment.

The cadre's practice was to keep each prisoner isolated initially for a period of time, during which the majority of forceful interrogation took place. The first hours—or in some cases, days—were the worst of the entire exercise. The use of considerable violent coercion was authorized in order to extract information from the prisoners, and it was not uncommon for them to be tortured into screaming confessions or rendered unconscious in the process, so long as no permanent damage or disfigurement occurred. It was all considered part of the conditioning process, teaching the clones how to hone their resistance techniques.

After the initial phase of interrogation, the prisoner was dressed in the standard gray prison slacks and shirt and delivered to the communal cell where he was left bound and blindfolded until the next prisoner was brought in, at which time, the prisoner's arms were freed and the blindfold removed, with only the ankle restraints – iron cuffs attached to half-meter long chains – to restrict his movement.

Still, there was some strength to be gained by being with fellow prisoners; and now as Wolffe looked at his cellmates, he felt his rank and leadership would be put to good use.

"Bly?"

"Who's that?" came the reply from the still-blindfolded prisoner.

"It's me, Wolffe. You okay?"

Bly's tone, though derisive, yet contained an element of defiance. "Good as I look."

"We all look like osik right about now," Wolffe deadpanned.

Bly went on. "Did they catch 7567? We got split up."

Here, CT-2303 spoke up. "They got him. They used me to lure and trap him. They definitely got him."

CT-9218 confirmed this report.

"What about Commander Cody?" Bly asked. "And . . . 2876?"

"I don't know," Wolffe replied. "I haven't heard anything."

"If anyone can beat this, it's Commander Cody," 9218 said with certainty.

Wolffe was quiet. The truth was that he'd imagined the trainee most likely to beat the scenario would have been CT-7567. But now he'd been captured, and Force only knew how the rest of the exercise would play out.

* * *

 _Glop! Glop! Glop!_

The sound of dripping water.

Before he even thought of opening his eyes, before he was even aware that he was conscious, Rex heard the sound of dripping water. It was not nearby. It was far away, worlds away.

It reminded him of his thirst.

He eased his way up to consciousness and blindness, the realization that he was back in his tiny cell, arms stretched above his head again and bound to the grate. His right shoulder and arm felt inflamed and disproportionately large, as if they had swollen right out of the skin. A second's contemplation and he recollected why they should hurt. He did not remember leaving that room of torture, nor did he remember passing out. But here he was, so apparently, it had been the latter.

His shoulder pleaded for relief from the stress of supporting the weight of his hanging body; but when he shifted to his feet, pain like fire shot from the bottoms of his feet up the length of his legs to remind him that his shoulder wasn't the only part of his body that had been mistreated. He relaxed his legs and let his body hang again; but within a minute, the shoulder could bear no more.

After several aggravating attempts to find some relief from the hurt, he simply let himself hang and attempted to block out the pain. There was no comfortable position. It was all misery, and it wasn't going to end anytime soon.

"How you doing down there, Lieutenant?" The voice of First Escort. In an odd way, the voice had become a comfort. Derisive, often indifferent, taunting – yet familiar. "Don't get too comfortable. Your presence is desired elsewhere. You ready to pay another visit to our friends?"

Rex swallowed down a series of groans as he was pulled out of the pit, but when he was set on his feet, the pain that exploded up his legs dropped him to his knees.

"Yeah, they're swollen pretty badly, Lieutenant. But come on, you've got more character than this. It's just a little pain," the voice of First Escort challenged, as its owner secured Rex's hands behind his back. "With everything we've heard about you, we kind of expected a bit more fight."

Rex was drawn back up to his feet, First Escort's words echoing in his ears. He could not account for the effect those words had on him. It was as if the jab at the weakness of his character had rattled something in the back of his mind where Cody's reprimand still loomed large and powerful. He took half a dozen steps, faltered, then collapsed to the ground.

"By the Force, I can't believe you did that," came the voice of Second Escort.

"That's more what I expected. Maybe all the rumors were true. You are going to be one tough bastard to break." This from First Escort. "Well, _if_ you can still walk, get back on your feet. If not, we're going to drag you . . . by your ankles."

"I can't walk," Rex replied.

"Yes, you can. Come on, we'll help you."

This reply surprised Rex. Why didn't they just drag him as threatened? Why did they want to see him surpass the limits of endurance? First Escort had just stated in a circuitous manner, that the cadre intended to break him. Did they want to see just how strong he was so that when they finally did tear him down, their victory would be that much sweeter? Or was it simply that most prisoners gave up easily, and it excited them to see a fighter?

Whatever the reason, when the two men took his arms and pulled him up to his feet once again, Rex began to walk. The escorts were supporting most of his weight, and by the time they came to the end of their journey, Rex could hardly be considered to be walking anymore. In essence, he was being carried, merely shuffling his feet in a show of stamina.

"He looks good."

Rex recognized the deep, non-clone voice.

"He practically walked all the way here," Second Escort said with what sounded strangely like pride.

"Oh?"

"No, that's not exactly true," First Escort corrected. "We had to carry him most of the way."

Rex thought he discerned a tone of aversion in First Escort's voice, as if he were trying to waylay the prospect of more excessive punishment.

"Hmmm . . . . I suppose I was too lenient during our last session," the deep voice said with a tinge of innuendo. "Ah well, I won't make that mistake twice."

"Where do you want him?"

"Just there . . . sit him down on the floor."

Rex was filled with relief when they lowered him into a sitting position, his legs out in front of him, his upper body hunched forward.

"Don't get so relaxed," the deep voice warned ominously. "We still have business to conduct."

The sickeningly sweet voice from the previous visit now spoke. "I don't suppose you have anything to tell us."

Rex was silent, and during his silence, he heard or perhaps he sensed his escorts leave. The feeling of desolation that followed upon their departure was unexpected. They had stayed with him the last time he'd been tortured, and without them, he felt very alone. He was horrified to find that he wanted them to come back. He almost _asked_ for them to be brought back, was only a second from opening his mouth to make the request when someone began tying his ankles together, while someone else looped another rope around his arms just above the elbows, and with rhythmic jerks, began cinching his arms together behind his back.

"This one's very popular on Garpur 4," the deep voice said casually. "I think you're going to enjoy it."

Already, the pain from his injured shoulder was making Rex's head swim. The ropes around his arms were drawn tighter until his elbows were touching. His forearms grew numb and tingly, and he could not feel his hands anymore.

"Time to see how flexible you are, Lieutenant."

The weight of at least one man pressed against his back, slowly forcing his shoulders and chest down until his torso was flush against his legs, folding him virtually in half. It was not possible to breath in this position, and Rex began gasping, panic-stricken.

"Where were you supposed to rendez-vous?"

"C-can't breath!" Rex choked out.

"Where were you supposed to rendez-vous?"

Rex's arms were raised behind him, pushed farther and farther beyond the point of natural muscular resistance until they were directly over his head, displaced from their sockets. He was screaming now. In a moment, he would start begging.

"Are you ready to answer some questions?"

So horrible and consuming was the agony that Rex could not even form the words of submission.

Something struck the bloodless skin of his forearms, and for an unbelievable instant, the pain was worse. Then it struck his forearms again and again, like a knife slicing into his flesh, driving him—him! of all clones!—to the verge of tears.

At last, he summoned enough wits to scream one word, the only word he could think of.

"Stop!"

The beating stopped.

The gentle voice was right next to his ear. "Just a nod will do. Are you ready to answer some questions?"

Rex nodded.

The ropes came off his arms, and with the flow of blood returning to his arms, a new kind of pin-prick pain washed over him. His ankles were freed, but his wrists remained bound behind him. He was rolled onto his stomach and left to lie there as his interrogation began.

"You see, Lieutenant, we don't want to hurt you like that. All we want is a little information. If you tell us what we want to know, we won't lay another hand on you," the voice said with the false assurance of deceit trying to sound trustworthy. "Where were you supposed to rendez-vous?"

Rex faltered before answering. Now that the hurt had subsided to tolerable levels, he was humiliated at his weakness. He could not recall that the pain had been all that terrible, and he was starting to believe that he had simply acted like a coward. Surely, his threshold for pain could not be that low. It was embarrassing! Cody would never have given in so easily.

"Where were you supposed to rendez-vous, Lieuenant?"

Rex replied in a quiet, even voice. "I don't know."

A sound of disgust came from Deep, while Sweet let out a dramatic sigh of disappointment.

"Don't do this, Lieutenant. I hate it when people don't keep their word. Do you want us to truss you up again?"

"No," Rex answered right away.

"Then cooperate with us. Where is the rendez-vous?"

"I don't know."

Immediately, the ropes were woven around Rex's arms again; and at the first tightening above his elbows, his memory loss abated.

"I'll talk!" he insisted. "I'll talk!" His voice cracked as his elbows were drawn together in one violent m motion. "Stop! Stop it! I'll talk!"

His pleas went unacknowledged. His arms were rotated up behind him as his screams rose to a climatic pitch.

"Let him stay like that for a few hours," Sweet said coolly. "Maybe he'll learn not to tell lies."

Hours? _Hours?!_ Rex could not imagine lasting beyond thirty seconds. The loss of circulation could cost him his arms. His tormentors had to be bluffing. Surely, they would not do anything that would permanently maim him. And yet, in the blur of his thoughts, he was not so sure. Any idea that this was merely a very realistic training scenario had been beaten out of his mind, and he was hard-pressed, in the face of such brutal treatment, to believe that his health and safety were being taken into account by the men inflicting the punishment. If there were fail safes in place, he was not going to wait to see at what point they kicked in.

"A bridge!" he blurted out. "We meet at a bridge!"

"It's too late, Lieutenant," Sweet replied. "You need to learn a lesson or two. But save your information. I'll be back for it in a few hours."

"No! No!" Rex shouted, pushing up onto his knees and lurching forward, relieving the pressure against his arms and catching both of his captors by surprise. For a moment, no one had a hold of him. He rolled onto his left side, thrust a leg out blindly, and felt a horrible, sharp pain as his foot came into contact with something solid.

Deep's enraged voice answered the question of what that something solid had been. "You fekking bastard!" Each bit-off syllable was accompanied by a blow against which Rex could not fight back.

"Hold him down!" This was Sweet's voice. He had gone for the two escorts, and now there were four sets of hands working to subdue the nearly hysterical prisoner.

"Stop fighting! Stop fighting!"

Rex heard the familiar voice of First Escort close to his ear.

"My arms! Don't let them—my arms!"

All struggling ceased, and a peculiar silence ensued, which, to Rex, reflected some sort of observation or deliberation on his captors' parts. He felt a touch on his arm, which although it was gentle, sent shuddering pain through his entire body. He knew his arms were being examined.

"What's this?" First Escort's voice was soft and incredulous.

"Nothing for you to be concerned about," Sweet replied. "And not a topic for discussion in front of the prisoner."

There was a brief moment of quiet, filled with a tension that even Rex could sense, then First Escort spoke again.

"May we speak outside, Sir?"

Rex listened to departing footsteps and the sound of a door closing. Over the next half-minute, he heard bits and pieces of a conversation coming from the corridor.

" . . . questioning tactics and doing so in front of the prisoner . . . "

" . . . I've never seen marks like that before . . . "

" . . . do it again and I'll request you be replaced . . . "

With this last comment, Rex heard a sharp breath and sudden movement nearby and within the room. One of the entourage had not gone out with the others and was still in the room, listening – like Rex – with much interest, hearing something disturbing enough to make him shift and groan.

Rex, sensing that his companion was Second Escort and most likely a junior soldier, was tempted to say something to him; but an alarm was playing in his mind, a warning that it was a bad time to attempt any communication. A ripple of outrage and disobedience was trembling beneath the efficiency and outward projection of unit portrayed by the team. The wrong choice of words, the wrong inflection, and any attempt at undermining the team's cohesiveness could backfire, landing Rex and his squad mates in even worse scenarios than those already playing out.

A few seconds later, the door opened and Rex heard Sweet's voice.

"Take him to the courtyard."

Unable to walk at all at this point, Rex was carried through the dim corridors, up a flight of stairs, and out onto a stone-cobbled yard. In the center of the yard was a pole, at least twelve meters tall, with a diameter of about forty centimeters. A pair of iron wrist cuffs hung at the end of a set of chains operated by a pulley system fixed to the top of the pole.

Rex's arms were untied, and his wrists placed in the cuffs, the pole at his back. He was hoisted up until his feet were off the ground, and then his ankles were drawn together and bound behind the pole.

"You need some cooling off, Lieutenant." This was Deep's voice. "Enjoy it while you can."

Rex listened to the sound of receding footsteps, and then all was silent except for the whirr of distant machinery and occasional sounds of indistinct origin. The frigid air settled around him like a shroud, lulling him into complacency and numbing the pain. Some time later—he wasn't sure how long—a wind began to rise, followed by rain – a heavy, wind-whipped rain that, while it washed the filth from his body, was cold and biting.

Rex was a man who, despite his intermittent bouts of whimsy, was fully grounded in reality. Yet, this whole thing – this ordeal he was undergoing – none of it seemed real. The longer he hung there, suspended like the carcass of some dead thing, the more his thoughts fragmented into a dreamlike state where these tortures could only be figments of his imagination. They were mind manipulations, meant to induce a sense of genuine physical agony. He wasn't really being tortured, just chemically tricked into thinking so.

A blood-curdling scream ripped him from the twilight.

It was a man's voice, raised in desperation and pain.

Above the din of the wind and rain, Rex heard a very familiar conversation, if it could be called that: the repeated, incessant demands of the interrogator and the agonized response of the one being interrogated. It seemed to go on forever, and as Rex recovered his senses, he realized that one of his fellow squad mates was being subjected to the same torment he had suffered.

A savage fury began to take shape somewhere too deep inside his body to be pinpointed. These were his squad mates being brutalized. His brothers. And, he feared, all on account of him. He had never heard of such tortures being used before in ARC training. But could it be, was it possible that Skidz hated him so much that he was not only willing to break the rules to get his revenge on Rex directly, but to also take it out on his squad mates – though they be men who felt only marginally less animosity towards him than Skidz?

Guilt did not sit well on Rex, but it had found a place to perch.

"Stop it," he mumbled. "Stop hurting them. I give up."

"Are you saying something, Lieutenant?"

Rex did not recognize this voice at all.

"I think he's delirious."

"That should make our job all the more entertaining."

"He's been up there four hours. Time to take him down."

Rex was lowered to the ground and his hands bound behind him once more as he lay on his stomach. He was then pulled to his knees.

"Get on your feet."

"I can't."

"Look, we've got a job to do, and it doesn't matter whether you're standing, kneeling, or flat on the ground. We've got our orders, and we're damned good at carrying them out. You, uh, you just might stand a better chance if you're on your feet." A derisive chuckle. "Eh, what the hell – it won't make a difference at all. You don't stand any chance."

"Where's the other soldier who's been guarding me?" Rex asked.

The answer was a crack across the jaw that sent him crashing to the ground.

"I'm still here." It was First Escort speaking in a snide, threatening voice; and then Rex knew it was First Escort who had struck him.

Rex was already trying to get to his feet in a show of determination and strength. "Tell them—tell them they don't have to hurt my squad mates—"

It was not First Escort but the new voice that responded with a condescending laugh. "We're not interested in the others, Lieutenant. We were sent here to deal with you. We understand you need softening up." A perfectly calculated pause. "By the time we're done with you, they'll be able to cut you with a spoon."


	75. Chapter 74

_**Dear Reader, Thank you for reviewing the last chapter, MsCT-782, The Unnamed Guest, Guest, Rohirrim Girl, and Sued 13. It means a lot to me. Yes, the last chapter was a bit rough, and this one is rougher. In fact, there is a moment in this chapter that verges on grotesque, but fear not – there are lines I won't cross when it comes to the clones! In response to The Unnamed Guest's question about the rate of my chapter postings, yes, things should pick up again. I would say weekly or every two weeks, tops. The ARC training segment has about 4-5 more chapters. Then it's back to the main storyline of Anakin and Rex. Cheers and happy reading! CS**_

Chapter 74 Interrogation

" _Have you reached your breaking point?"_

 _Breaking Point  
_ Justin Hayward and John Lodge

* * *

Commander Cody looked out from his cover among the bushes and scanned the area around the crossroads for any signs of movement. It was just getting light and the rain that had fallen all night had turned to a drizzle. He considered going out for a better look, but something in the back of his mind told him that was only looking for trouble.

It was the morning of day four of the exercise, and Cody did not want to risk getting caught and spending even one day in the compound. He had spent enough days as a prisoner on previous E&E exercises to know that it was something he could definitely live without.

He and his one remaining companion, CT-2876, the Shinie from his own Bravo Squad, had arrived at the rendez-vous yesterday afternoon after a rough-and-tumble flight through the forest with the aggressors hot on their heels. CT-1789 had become separated from them at that time and they'd not seen him since. Cody and 2876 had managed to elude the pursuers at a river where Cody put some of his battlefield experience to use to make a concealed crossing among the reed beds. Arriving at the rendez-vous, they found no one else had made it yet. They had seen the enemy make a few cursory sweeps of the area, but none of the cadre had checked the woods on the far side of the crossroads with any thoroughness. Perhaps it was because they refused to believe that anyone could have made it past them, and so they were still directing their search towards the nearside.

Like most every clone who went through the various E&E training courses, Cody had been captured every time. He'd never made it all the way to the safe zone, and although he was there now, he did not enjoy a very pronounced feeling of security. The manner in which the aggressors were prowling the area made him feel as if he and 2876 might not be granted success even though they had earned it; and so he was wary of announcing their presence.

And so, after surveying the crossroads and the patrolling aggressors for ten minutes, he drew back into the deeper woods with his Shinie.

"I still didn't see any of the others," he announced quietly.

"Do you think we're the only ones left, Commander?"

"It looks that way, doesn't it?"

"So, what do we do? Do we just wait?"

"Normally, I would think we would just show ourselves to the cadre. This is supposed to be the safe zone, meaning the exercise is over for us," Cody replied. "But I don't trust them."

"Don't trust them?"

"I don't trust them not to take us and throw us in the prison camp, even though we're supposed to be safe." A pause. "These guys have a reputation to uphold, and they're not going to be very happy if someone gets past them."

"But there's only one day of the exercise left, Commander," 2876 pointed out. "We should definitely be safe after that."

Cody cast a wry grin at the Shinie. "There are no definites here. I'm sure if they want to extend it, they can."

"That's not very fair."

Cody actually laughed. "You weren't expecting this to be fair, were you?"

CT-2876 colored a bit then asked, "Do you really think the others have all been captured?"

Cody considered for a moment before answering. Truthfully, the one person he'd expected would make it to the safe zone had been CT-7567. His absence could simply mean he'd not made it yet. Or it could be that he had, in fact, been captured. The commander could not pinpoint why, but somehow he knew it was the latter. Rex would have been at the rendez-vous by now. The only reason he wasn't there was because he'd been caught.

"I think it's highly likely," he replied. "I would have expected Rex to beat us here. The fact that he's not here doesn't bode well."

"A very astute observation, Commander," came a distantly familiar voice from the woods behind Cody.

By the time Cody and 2876 had sprung to their feet and turned towards the direction of the voice, the forest had produced more than a dozen armed men. Stepping out into the open, the owner of the voice showed himself to be Captain Skidz.

"We're in the safe zone, Captain," the commander pointed out.

"And for that reason, we aren't going to treat you too roughly," Skidz replied with mock graciousness.

"You aren't supposed to do anything to us," Cody pointed out, knowing that the argument was already lost. "For us, the exercise is supposed to be over. We made it to the safe zone. That means we're rescued."

"It means nothing, Commander." Skidz gave a small laugh. "Actually, what it means is you only have to spend one day in the prison camp." With these words, he gave a nod and stepped back to allow his team to do their job.

Cody was not going to go down without a fight despite being vastly outnumbered. And neither was CT-2876. Even though the advantage was heavily against them, they managed to inflict a broken wrist and bloodied nose on a couple of the aggressors – injuries for which the two captives paid for many times over. When the melee ended, they were bound and blindfolded and led to a waiting speeder truck.

Cody was about to be loaded into the back, when he heard Skidz's voice, "Ready to join your roommate?"

Cody thought about giving a flippant answer, but a moment's consideration stopped him. He would not give Skidz anything to work with. After all, the exercise was almost over. At least, he hoped it was. He could tolerate anything for one more day.

* * *

Rex had never been beaten up before. Even as a batcher growing up among boys identical to himself and getting into the sort of scraps as boys normally do—even clone boys living under highly regimented conditions—he had never been worked over like a punching bag. He had usually emerged with a bruise or two to prove that he had indeed been mixing it up; but he had never taken a beating like this. He had never been driven down and, even after defeat, continued to absorb blow after blow.

For the past two, three, maybe four hours – time had ceased to having any meaning after his first visit to the interrogators—he'd been getting the daylights beaten out of him. Not continually and not with the intent of maiming. It was a systematic tearing down of his resistance, of his will.

His captors would torment him for a period of time, usually until their brutality stopped eliciting a reaction. Then they would simply let him lie wherever he was, wait until the first signs of movement, then resume administering punishment.

Rex had no idea how many men were present, but he knew for certain that his two escorts were part of the team. First Escort appeared to be filling the role of regulator and herd-rider, ensuring none of his entourage got too excited in the execution of their duties. Even so, there was no shortage of enthusiasm. Rex had been kicked, punched, dragged, pounded against the ground and walls, beaten with sticks, but always just short of rendering him unconscious. Between bouts as he lay on the ground, sometimes he would be on the brink of drifting off when ghoulish hands would snatch him back into this world where everything was pain.

That was what he was waiting for now.

A drowsiness had settled in his veins as his mind grew sluggish and nonsensical. Yet one prevailing thought pushed through with clarity. What was happening to his squad mates? Where were they right now? Were they being subjected to the same tortures? How were they holding up?

Were they worried about him?

He stopped dead in the middle of that last thought, surprised to find it in his head. That he was worried about the others seemed only natural. That was who he was. He was the sort of leader who always put the welfare of his men ahead of his own. Not that the others were _his_ men. He wasn't the squad leader. But still, it only made sense that he would be worried about them. However, he had never wondered—not in the 729th or at any time that he could recall—whether or not his men ever worried about him. To even entertain such an egocentric notion smacked of self-involvement.

Didn't it?

Was it wrong of him to wonder if his brothers were worried about him and wondering what had happened to him? Was he selfish to hope that his squad mates cared about him beyond their working relationships? Rex had always enjoyed his reputation as a virtually impenetrable strongman, but he cared about his brothers. He always had. He always would. And he realized at that moment, shivering in the air just before dawn, too weak to move and edging ever closer to total defeat at the hands of his captors, that he wanted his brothers to care about him.

This was not something inculcated into the clones at any point during their upbringing. They were taught to value each other as fighting men, almost as a means to an end. The camaraderie they felt was something learned, not natural. Or . . . perhaps that had always been an undercurrent of something genuine, a bond between men created from the same template; but it had been pushed down and buried beneath the apparent necessity of teaching the clones that their ultimate value lay in their ability to fuel the gears of the war effort.

"It won't be much longer."

It was the voice of First Escort.

It took a long moment for Rex to piece together where he was, to draw himself out of the thoughts that had so surprised and consumed him. When he finally found his voice, he was embarrassed by the frailty but not the words.

"Put me with my squad."

"You'll be with them soon."

"I can't take much more of this." The words rolled out unbidden, without preparation. It was the truth, and Rex was desperate to tell it to someone.

"It's almost over." First Escort was speaking quietly, as if he didn't want to be overheard. "Just give them what they want, Lieutenant. Pretend, if you have to. Lie. They're going to keep on you until you give them what they want."

"I don't know what they want."

"They want to break you. That's all they're interested in."

"They _have_ broken me." A short silence ensued before Rex asked, "What day is it?"

"Don't ask me that. I can't answer that. But trust me, it _is_ almost over."

"Can I have some water?"

"Later. They want you back inside now."

"Back to my cell?"

"Back to interrogation."

A pause, then First Escort's voice rose in a shout. "Let's go!"

Rex cried out anxiously, driven beyond the point of caring whether or not anyone heard him. "Don't take me back in there!"

"Shut up."

"Then—will you stay? Stay in the room this time?"

There was a hesitation, then came the reply, spoken with the dismal sound of defeat. "No . . . I can't. I don't want to."

* * *

The approach of other footsteps prevented Rex from speaking again, and even First Escort's words were lost on him as he was lifted off the ground and carried bodily from the court yard.

First Escort was gone.

He had followed his instructions, delivering the prisoner to interrogation, depositing him on the ground, then departing with orders to return when called for – no sooner.

At the sound of the door slamming, Rex knew he was alone with Deep and Sweet again, and he tried to focus his mind on what First Escort had said. It was almost over. He could hold on. He had to. What choice did he have? Maybe he would tell them everything they asked for. What difference did it make, anyway? This was only an exercise. An exercise gone wrong, out-of-hand, out-of-control. Why should he extend the suffering by withholding information under contrived circumstances?

His torturers started on him immediately, repeating the punishments of the past two sessions, apparently delighted that they were equally effective the second time around. They asked no questions, and Rex found himself wishing they would. He would have answered anything after five seconds in the ropes.

Instead, he found himself, an hour after having been brought in, still bound up, his head between his knees, with Deep's foot planted in the middle of his back, trying to force him still lower. There was nothing he could do to stop it, and so he did not even attempt a fight as the world began to fade away, growing hazy and indistinct around the edges. And then, just a breath away from blacking out, the ropes were loosened.

Someone was untying him, freeing his arms. The pressure against his back abated, and he sucked in a deep breath that erupted into a fit of coughing. He could hear Deep, busily engaged in removing the ropes and whistling an unfamiliar tune.

As the last coil of rope came off, Deep stopped whistling. "There now, Lieutenant. Ready for a trip to the table? I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve."

"I'm willing to talk," Rex said right away. What he meant was that he was willing to lie in order to postpone any further punishment.

"Oh, you'll talk, all right," Deep replied, then resumed whistling as he hauled Rex to his feet.

Something in the man's voice, in his glib manner, made Rex shudder. First Escort had said they wanted to break him, but Rex had a feeling that by "break", they weren't aiming for the imparting of a few details of the operation; they were aiming for a show of begging, pleading, hysterics.

"I told you I'll talk," Rex said in a controlled voice. "You don't have to torture me anymore."

"Unfortunately, you've established yourself as a liar, Lieutenant," Sweet said with impeccable calm. "Besides, it's our pleasure to torture you."

Rex was placed face down on top of the table, his arms once again tied together underneath, and his ankles placed in shackles. A few seconds later, something struck the back of his legs with a stinging sensation that brought his head up and around.

"Just a Copian Rasp Reed." Deep's voice accompanied the hollow, whooshing sound made by the shoot as it came down again, this time on Rex's back. "Don't worry. It only hurts for a little while, and the inflammation will go away after a few days." A calculated pause. "Provided I don't break the skin. The Copians have given us such wonderful options. They aren't known as the master torturers for nothing."

Within a minute, Rex's back and legs were on fire. And his tormentors gave no indication of slowing. A fever seemed to have infected them with a lust for inflicting pain, and at last, Rex could bear it no longer. The Code of Conduct. Setting the example of resistance. Death before dishonor. Rubbish. All rubbish. Self-preservation had kicked in, and just as Rex was about to launch into a soliloquy that would have outlined in false detail every facet of the operation, the beating was suspended at the sound of a door opening.

There was silence for a moment, then the unmistakable voice of Captain Skidz. "I see you've been going at him." A pause. "Has he talked?"

"Not yet." This was Sweet.

Rex corralled his strength. "I'll talk," he choked out. "I t-told you . . . I'll . . . "

Another long moment during which Rex had the impression Skidz was moving around the table, examining his prize captive and the handiwork of his torturers. "You've both done a good job. Perhaps here . . . and here . . . a little less force next time. But overall, you've done extremely well."

"I know what I'd like to do." This from Deep, and in the next moment, Rex stiffened in horror as he felt the man's hand run over his buttocks.

Captain Skidz spoke with disdainful humor. "Don't be grotesque. We clones don't do that sort of thing."

"Why not? It's one of the most effective ways of getting a prisoner to talk," Deep replied. "And besides, I thought he was your enemy."

"He's not my enemy," Skidz corrected. "He's my rival. There's a big difference." A pause. "And some things cross the line."

"You don't think all of this has crossed the line?" Sweet questioned, but it was clear he was jesting.

"Just continue on."

Rex then heard Sweet's voice, very soft and right against his ear. "Now, listen to me very carefully, Lieutenant. Where is the rendez-vous?"

Rex did not hesitate. "A bridge over the Satchet. Made of stone. 115 East, 80.2 South."

"How many men did you have with you?"

"Thirty." He gave the number of a regular platoon.

"That's very good, Lieutenant," Sweet said, obviously pleased. "Now . . . where is the rendez-vous?"

Rex was not sure he had heard him correctly. He had just answered that question, hadn't he? Maybe he hadn't. Had the pain driven him to confusion? Either way, he wasn't going to take any chances. "A bridge over the Satchet. Made of—"

The reed cracked across his shoulder blades, drawing a startled gasp.

"Where?" Sweet's voice was still soft and laced with false compassion.

Rex faltered, not knowing what to say. Had they not understood him the first time? Or the second?

Another strike.

"Answer me. Where were you supposed to rendez-vous?"

"A bridge . . . " came the wavering response.

"Which bridge?"

"Over the Satchet, 115 east, 80.2 south."

He was struck again.

"Where were you supposed to rendez-vous?"

"I've told you!" Rex burst out. "I've already told you!"

"Where?"

The same question over and over again. The same answer over and over again. The same punishment. Rex could not understand the interrogator's repeated demand for information which he had already provided. But he continued to give the same reply, which by now had become like a recording in his brain. He had a sense that it did not matter anymore.

* * *

CT-755 entered the PI staff office at 1550 hours, ten minutes before the start of his shift. The men were pulling 20-hour shifts with an 8-hour rest cycle, Myotta being on a 28-hour rotation. CT-755 had come off shift that morning , nearly three hours after having delivered his prisoner to the interrogation room. He had been expecting the call to go retrieve the lieutenant before going off shift, but the call had never come. He accepted this with his usual resignation and a degree of convincing himself that his superiors knew what they were doing and that no serious harm would come to Compound 88's most coveted prisoner.

CT-755, nicknamed Denal for reasons no one could recall, was a good soldier in every sense. He was not an ARC trooper, but rather one of the many outstanding clones who augmented the ARC cadre. He took his job seriously. He followed orders well, and even better, displayed striking initiative. He was an obeyer of rules, but he knew when and how to bend them, though he never broke them.

That obedience might have been why he was having difficulty reconciling himself to what he'd been seeing the past few days. The punishment being inflicted not only on this particular prisoner, but on the other members of the squad was clearly out of bounds. Denal had worked as aggressor against hundreds of squads, but he'd not been assigned as an individual escort before, and certainly not for anyone such as the man he was now charged with guarding. His experience with other squads going through the training had certainly included rough-housing, accepted forms of physical and mental coercion, and realistic deprivation. But the PI teams had always operated within certain boundaries. This time was different, and he ascribed it to the animosity Captain Skidz held towards CT-7567, a rivalry of which Skidz made no secret.

He checked in on the duty log and stepped in front of the full-length mirror to check his uniform. It wasn't the armor that the clones usually wore, but rather a material uniform designed especially for the PI teams.

"Hey, Denal, the CO wants the lieutenant back in interrogation at 1630," announced CT-6908, a master sergeant, the senior NCO present who was just coming off duty.

Denal nodded with a frown. "I take it that means they didn't break him."

From a locker on the far side of the room, a corporal replied, "Oh, yes, they did. Me and Pearly just went up and brought him back to his snakepit an hour or so ago. Lieutenant 44 was bragging on about how they made him cry like a _finsquit_ —"

"And talk like a _Bongo Sayback_ ," added another soldier standing nearby. "You should have heard the LT. He was ecstatic. Tools was pretty over the top, too."

"It was disgusting," the corporal grumbled with a shake of his head. "After everything they did to him, how could they think he wouldn't talk?"

"I don't understand," Denal said blankly. "If they've already broken him, if he's already told them everything, why do they want him back in inter?"

The corporal shrugged. "For fun, I guess."

"You said he's back in his cell? Down in K-Block?"

"Yeah. When was it we brought him back, Pearly? An hour and a half ago?"

"'Bout that, yeah."

"And the CO wants him back in Inter at 1630. Only two hours respite?" Denal turned towards the master sergeant with a questioning look.

"CO's orders."

Denal scowled.

"Don't go looking for trouble, 755," the master sergeant warned. "We all knew this was going to happen when you captured him. We've been hearing about this guy since the first day he came to ARC training. Don't act like we haven't been waiting to test ourselves against him."

"We knew things were going to be tough on him," Denal corrected. "But this osik that they're pulling was never mentioned. If I had known they were going to do this to him, I wouldn't have brought him in."

"You don't really know what they're doing to him. Just let it go. One more day, and it's over anyway."

"But I _do_ know what they're doing. I've seen it with my own eyes, for fek's sake. And when I tried to say something to Tools about it, I got my head bit off. He has no respect for us clones, and I think he gets off on doing this kind of crap. Why did they ever hire a Gipon as an interrogator anyway? The guy doesn't know when he's going too far, and the captain has given him free reign to do as he pleases . . . and the LT is no better. He didn't think my squad was being rough enough with the prisoner, so he sent another squad to _help_ us-"

"He sent 809's squad," supplied a corporal 611, who had been Denal's sideman through the entire exercise, Second Escort. "They were out in the courtyard with us. We practically had to pull them off 7567. They're a brutal bunch, I can tell you."

"Both of you will be walking on thin ice if you don't watch yourselves," the master sergeant warned. "Captain Skidz won't like what you're saying. He's the one giving the orders. All you have to do is obey them."

"I have been obeying. So has 611," Denal replied heatedly. "But we also have consciences." He turned to 611. "Let's go."

The walk to K-Block took about ten minutes, and neither man spoke much. 611 was a brand new corporal and had only been part of the ARC E&E team for a little over four weeks. He still had not gotten used to roughing up his fellow clones, and the idea of striking an officer . . . he could barely bring himself to do it. But even as a relative newcomer, he had seen right away that this squad was not being handled in the manner of previous squads. He himself had spent almost an hour taking part in the beating of the Shinie who had been used as bait to trap CT-7567. He hadn't thought to question why they had ordered such a thing. He imagined it must be to show the prisoners that no matter how much they suffered in training, it was nothing compared to what could be expected as a true prisoner-of-war. Or perhaps it was just to nullify the cockiness of the ARC trainees.

Denal, for his part, would not pass along to either his peers or his subordinates his dissatisfaction and doubt about what was happening. He had informed his chain-of-command of the reservations he was harboring. That was as far as it went. Now, he would carry out his duties, 611 would see him doing it, and that would be that.

They came to K-Block, passed the guards on duty, and went down into the vast underground tunnel system, now housing the camp prison and isolation cells.

CT-7567's snakepit, as they called it, was at the farthest reach of a dead end corridor, removed from all sounds of existence except for that of the water that dripped year round from the ceiling, turning the well-trod ground into a slick, muddy surface.

Denal and 611 approached, as they had numerous times before. Denal crouched down and untied the rope from the iron grate and held it taut as 611 slide the grate aside. Once 611 had reached in and grabbed one of the lieutenant's arms, Denal released the rope and took hold of the other arm.

The first indication that something was wrong was when there was no crying out or groaning as they lifted him out of the pit. There had always been some kind of vocal expression of pain. This time, not a sound came from the prisoner, whose body was limp and flaccid. They laid him on his back on the ground.

"Lieutenant? Are you awake?" Denal asked, hunkering down and gently slapping Rex's cheek.

"Yes," came the emotionless reply. "My back . . . legs . . . hurt."

The two escorts carefully maneuvered him onto his side. Even in the dim light of the tunnel, they could see the welts, swelling and bruising, occasional patches of broken or crushed skin.

"Fek and all, what did they do him?" 611 said under his breath, his eyes growing wide.

"I don't know," Denal replied. "It looks like a . . . whip or cane. Can you move your legs, Lieutenant?"

"Yes." Rex showed them with a feeble bend at the knee. He was beginning to shudder and tremble. "I—need . . . need help."

"I think he's going into shock," 611 stated.

"Thirsty . . . "

"Go get some water," Denal ordered and 611 was off like a Nubane Hare. Denal made a quick examination of his charge's body, finding more indications of abuse, but receiving no coherent response to his inquiries as to what manner of punishment had caused the injuries. One thing he was certain of: CT-7567 had been severely mishandled, and he was not going to permit it to continue.

611 returned with a plasticeen cup of water, which he held to Rex's lips.

Rex took a tremorous sip, spluttered and choked, then lay unmoving on the ground.

"Come on, I'll take his shoulders," Denal ordered. "You take his legs."

They picked him up and began walking.

"Where are we taking him?"

"To the holding cell."

611 almost stopped walking. "But the CO—"

"I'll handle the CO. I'm not taking him back to interrogation. By the Force, 611, look at him. He's had enough," Denal replied heatedly.

611 hesitated a moment. "We're going to get in big trouble."

"I'll take full responsibility. But I'm not taking him back. This has gone on long enough."

"I wasn't saying I'm not in this, Sergeant," 611 replied. "Because I am. But we _are_ going to get in a lot of trouble."

"Then we get in trouble."

They came to the entrance to the main holding area where a single man stood guard over a dozen large cells, though only one was in use at the moment.

"Bringing another one in," Denal announced, then as the guard reached for the grey prison garb, Denal waved him off.

"You don't want him dressed?" the guard asked, perplexed.

"No." Denal's one-word answer did not bring any further questions, and he could already see that the guard was taking in the damage done to the lieutenant's body.

"He looks bad."

"Yeah."

The guard accompanied them to the cell and unlocked the door.

This was the part Denal was not looking forward to. At the sound of their arrival outside the cell, every eye that wasn't blindfolded turned to see who the new arrival was. The guard opened the door, and Denal and 611 entered with their prisoner.

611 kept his eyes averted, but Denal met each and every one of the accusative, horrified stares of the speechless men. He knew their thoughts. It took only one look for them to see that the lieutenant had been abused far beyond the parameters of the training regimen. And that was what Denal had wanted. It was the reasoning behind his refusal of the clothing. He'd wanted them to see what had been done to CT-7567. He'd wanted to get their ire up, get their blood boiling. On the path he was taking, he would need their backing . . .

He wanted to make this part as quick as possible. He and 611 set their prisoner down on his stomach next to the wall on the far side of the cell and placed the iron cuffs around his ankles, leaving his wrists still bound behind his back and the blindfold still covering his eyes. Then they left, without a word having been spoken.

Immediately upon their departure, Wolffe spoke out. "Rex? Rex? CT-7567?"

Silence.

"Can any of you reach him?"

None of them could.

"Fek . . . what did they do to him?" CT-9218 said in barely a whisper.

"Try—try to toss a shirt over him or something," Wolffe ordered CT-1789 who was closest to him.

CT-1789 did his best, managing to get his shirt at least partly across Rex's back. "He's not breathing too well, Commander," he observed.

"Rex? Rex, can you hear me?" Wolffe persisted.

Still no response.

"He looks really bad, Sir," 1789 stated.

Wolffe grit his teeth. There was nothing he could do except call for help, and how likely was it that any help would be forthcoming?

"Just . . . keep an eye on him," he said at last, feeling utterly useless. "Watch to see if he gets any worse."

* * *

"Wait out here," Denal said to CT-611. He then opened the door to the interrogation room, stepped inside and closed it behind him. He had expected to see CT-9144 – or Lieutenant 44, as he was known - and Sergeant First Class Tools, the Gipon who oversaw the torture methods, but finding Captain Skidz also present was a mixture of good and bad fortune.

Skidz looked puzzled. "Sergeant Denal? Where's the prisoner? Did you bring him?"

"He's in the holding cell, Sir," Denal replied.

A moment of bewildered silence followed, then Captain Skidz asked, "What's he doing there? We're not finished with him yet."

"I took him there, Sir."

"What in hell did you do that for?"

Denal unconsciously straightened his stance. He was nearly at attention.

"He's done in, Sir. Completely done in. You're not going to be able to get any more out of him, Sir," he replied.

Skidz scowled while the lieutenant shook his head and Tools flashed a look of warning at Denal that the sergeant was overstepping his bounds.

"I'll be the judge of that," the captain said. "Now, go get him and bring him here."

"Sir," Denal said between clenched teeth. "I saw his legs. I saw his back."

Skidz did not miss a beat. "And?"

"And it's too much, Sir. You're disregarding the safety parameters set by the camp commander. You're being too hard on this one officer, and you could get us all in trouble for it."

Captain Skidz waited a few seconds, then asked, "Are you finished?"

Denal had not expected this reaction. "Yes, Sir," he stammered.

"Then let me tell you a few things, Sergeant," the captain began, coming to stand directly before Denal with only centimeters between them. "Colonel Claw knows what we're doing down here. I brief him every day. I've received permission from him to try out some forms of punishment that have been borderline and are now being considered for inclusion in the regimen. CT-7567 has not been seriously injured. He's just playing on your emotions. Second, I hand-picked you to be a member of my team. I got you promoted early. I sent you to the training necessary to fill this job, which is a sergeant first class position, in case you forgot, _Staff_ Sergeant. You've received two commendations because of me. And now you're going to tell me that you disagree with my decisions? You're going to repay me by disobeying my orders?"

Denal did not know what to say. Could it possibly be true that Colonel Claw knew what forbidden activities were being conducted in 88? Denal considered that maybe he had been taking this whole thing too seriously. Maybe the injuries inflicted on members of this squad were not as bad as they looked. Captain Skidz had always been fair and perhaps a bit over-zealous.

"No, Sir," the sergeant replied. "I just think it's too much for him – for CT-7567."

"Believe me, I was a pod mate with CT-7567. He's a lot stronger than you think," Skidz replied. "He's just putting on a good show to make you feel sorry for him."

Denal did not believe this for an instant. He had heard the captain speak disparagingly of CT-7567 before, but the sergeant had never felt it necessary to say anything. There were a lot of rivalries among the clones. He'd considered this to be just one more. But that opinion had changed.

"I need to know I have your loyalty, Sergeant," Skidz went on. "If you think I'm being unfair, then I really don't want you on the team."

"I don't think you're being unfair, Sir."

The captain smiled and nodded. "Very well. Then you and 611 will accompany me down to the holding cell to retrieve the prisoner."

Denal grimaced. "I don't think that's a good idea, Sir." He went on quickly before he could be accused of disloyalty again. "He's with the rest of his squad now. They've seen him and what's been done to him. To take him out of there would be like throwing fuel on a fire. Even if they only _think_ you're taking him away to torture him again, we'll have a riot on our hands when the exercise is over."

"These are ARC troopers in training, Sergeant," Skidz reminded him. "They are the consummate professionals. They're not going to cause a scene." A pause. "But you bring up an interesting possibility." He turned to the Lieutenant 44 and Sergeant First Class Tools. "In the courtyard, when he heard one of his squad mates being tortured, he became angry and begged us not to hurt the others." He was growing excited with his own words. "Why didn't I think of this before? If he's really the man he wants us to think he is, then he won't be able to bear witnessing the torture of his squad mates. He'll crack and tell us everything."

Denal was stunned. "But I—I thought you'd already broken him, that he's already talked."

"Oh, Sergeant, don't be so naïve. Of course, he broke. Of course, he talked. And it was all lies. Every confession was meant to send us in the wrong direction. We knew that as he was pretending to spill his guts," Skidz replied. "Like I said, you don't need to feel sorry for the man. He can make us all look like fools." He then turned to the lieutenant and Tools. "We're going to take your show on the road, gentlemen. Will you kindly accompany me to the holding cell?"

The lieutenant nodded. Tools smiled, "I'd be delighted, Captain."

"And you," Skidz glanced dismissively at Denal, "You and 611 are coming, too. You can prove your worth to me."

Insult mingled with rage beneath Denal's placid exterior. He was beginning to wonder if being worthy of Captain Skidz was anything to be proud of, yet he followed him out of the interrogation room without voicing another word of protest. At least, if he were present, he might be able to temper whatever was about to transpire.

The shock that registered on 611's face when the sergeant and Captain Skidz emerged together from the interrogation room was nothing compared to his complete amazement when he realized they were heading for the holding cell. He dared asked no questions, and there was no opportunity to even cast a curious glance at his sergeant, whom he could tell was irritated and trying to hide it.

Less than fifteen minutes after having left the holding cell, Denal found himself standing again outside its barred door. CT-611 stood in quiet confusion beside him, and in front of them, peering in between the bars at the prisoners staring back at him, Captain Skidz stood with his hands clasped behind his back, assuming the posture of an officer conducting an inspection. An occasional nod as a measure of satisfaction completed his masquerade and gave him the appearance of a bad actor.

Shortly, they were joined by the Lieutenant 44, Tools, and two other soldiers, also members of the interrogation team. Captain Skidz took the keys from the guard on duty and sent the man away; then he looked at Denal with an expression that told the sergeant he was on trial and expected to prove himself.

"Bring him out."

Denal gave no acknowledgment, but with a glance at 611, the two men entered the cell and approached CT-7567.

In the short time since having been brought to the cell, Rex had drifted up from unconsciousness to a sort of stupor where he had no idea where he was and could scarcely recall that he was part of a training exercise. He could hear voices calling out to him, and he recognized his CT number on an almost instinctive level. The name was less compelling, and he seemed to recall that it was only recently bestowed. Not that he had any desire or intention of following the beckoning voices. He was in such pain, with fever and sickness swirling through his veins, that he distinctly preferred to return to the world of oblivion where none of the suffering could follow him.

Being a fighter, Rex did not consider this course of action to be a sign of weakness. In fact, in his estimation, his fight to return to the mercy of senselessness was the only thing that would preserve his sanity. Or, at the very least, his dignity.

No. No, his dignity was gone.

And he was not interested in anything pulling him back into a reality of agony, the cause and purpose of which he could only fleetingly bring to mind. He was content to sleep through the remainder of whatever was going on. Let someone else be the strongman. Let someone else be the rock.

"What are you doing?"

It took Rex a moment to realize it was his own voice asking the question. There was movement around his ankles. Someone was taking off the cuffs.

"The interrogators have some more questions for you."

 _First Escort!_

And suddenly, Rex was unwillingly drawn back into the world he had so desired to flee, snapped into full consciousness. "They're going to torture me again."

"I—don't know."

"But I already told them—told them—"

"Come on, get up."

"I can't walk," Rex choked out.

"We'll carry you." With these words, his wrists were freed and one arm went over the shoulders of each escort.

They had gone only a few steps when another voice spoke, restrained against the undercurrent of rage. "Can't you take someone else?"

Rex thought he recognized in the inflection, Commander Wolffe's voice. But what was the commander doing here? And where was here? Reality and delusion were becoming intertwined. Everything had gone awry. What man in his right mind would give himself over for torture?

Captain Skidz's voice rose in reply. "Are you volunteering to take his place, Commander?"

"Yes," came the unhesitating response.

"You can take me, too." That voice was definitely CT-5052. The ever-present sneer was always distinctive.

"We're all willing to take his place," Wolffe asserted.

Captain Skidz grinned. They were playing right into his hands.

"No," Rex gurgled, unaware that he was now standing on legs that, seconds earlier had been too weak and too painful to bear his weight. "That's an order – all of you."

Skidz chuckled. "A lieutenant giving orders to a commander? That is entertaining. But unfortunately, you're not in charge here, Lieutenant. And neither is the commander. But I rather like his idea. You don't seem to take much account of your own suffering, but maybe seeing your squad mates being tortured will make you a bit more willing to cooperate." He turned to Denal. "Take off his blindfold."

After two days of being in a non-seeing world, Rex opened his eyes onto the darkness of the prison cell. Both eyes were swollen from the beatings he had taken, and, in fact, he could not open his left eye at all. The light in the underground prison was negligible, but what Rex could make out through his blurred vision was enough to bring the bile up his throat.

His squad mates, bruised and disheveled, all of them chained by their ankles, two still bound and blindfolded, the others staring at him with expressions that Rex could not quite discern. He didn't see Cody among them . . . and it seemed someone else was missing. They were probably being tortured at that very moment.

"Choose one." Captain Skidz voice fell flat in the midst of the smoldering silence.

Rex turned a cold and impassive countenance towards Skidz and said nothing.

"They're your squad mates. Choose one," Skidz repeated.

The tension-filled standoff between the two men ended with Rex staring directly into the challenging eyes of this man whom he'd not seen in months, whom he had hardly spared a thought for since entering active duty, but who had obviously thought about _him_ a great deal.

"I won't."

Skidz shrugged carelessly. "Then I'll choose one for you." He took several steps forward and began looking over the prisoners. At last, he stopped in front of CT-2303, the very same Shinie whom Rex had found in the pit. He nodded to the LT and Tools who hastened over to unchain 2303's ankles and haul him to his feet.

"Yes, I think you'll do very well. " Skidz nodded to Tools, who, with shocking speed, slammed the heel of his hand into 2303's chin, snapping the Shinie's head back and into the wall.

The last tattered threads of Rex's self-control unraveled in that moment. Rage-induced adrenaline overtook rational thought as he broke from the loose hold his two escorts had on him and threw himself at Tools, knocking the Gipon down and hitting him repeatedly before Captain Skidz elbow-locked him around the throat and jerked him off his perch on Tools' chest.

Rex took a step back, reached up with both arms, and threw the captain to the ground with a violence that bordered on maniacal. A blindness obscured his vision, a blindness completely different from that in which he had been imprisoned the past two days. What vicious part of him, always so well-contained and regulated within the limits of civility, was showing its savage face? Fury alone guided his actions. He pummeled the body beneath him, heedless of everything except his own hatred and a vague sense of grief.

No one moved to intervene. No one made a sound. Somehow, it seemed fitting, this fight between two rivals.

From his place by the cell door, Denal watched in fascination as CT-7567, who only minutes earlier, had not even been able to hold his own weight, inflicted revenge on the officer who had ordered the torture of him and his squad mates. There was something surpassing belligerency in this contest. A warlike hostility had taken insidious hold of both men; yet Captain Skidz was no match for CT-7567. The driving powers of vengeance and sheer, unadulterated rage fueled the latter's attack; and within a few minutes, Captain Skidz was shouting for help.

It was Denal, with CT-611 leaping to follow, who first stepped forward. They took hold of Rex's arms and fought to pull him off of their own captain.

"Stop fighting, Lieutenant!" Denal hissed into his prisoner's ear. "Take it easy!"

"You don't touch them!" Rex screamed, only now realizing that he'd been shouting these words for some time. "You don't touch them! They're _my_ soldiers!"

Rex's squad mates looked on in amazement. They could hardly believe this was the same cocky, arrogant, egocentric man they had seen throughout the earlier phases of training. Something about this strange moment of strength and breakdown brought Rex's humanity into view with greater clarity than anything that had gone before.

He wasn't an army unto himself. He did need his brothers. Needed them in a way even he had not recognized. It was a moment none of them would ever forget. And it was a moment they would never see again.

Captain Skidz, wiping the blood from his lip, got to his feet and came to stand in front of Rex. His voice shook as his spoke. "You . . . will never be . . . an ARC trooper."

"I don't fekking care," Rex ground out. "But you'll always be a coward."

Skidz drew back his fist, at which Denal and 611 both released their grip on the prisoner. Before the blow could be delivered, Rex lunged towards Skidz, wrapping his arms around his waist and driving him down. Tools sprang forward, directed a double-fisted blow into Rex's side, knocking him off of the captain; and finishing with an elbow to the back of the head, he dropped Rex like a stone to ground.

Immediately, Denal knelt down beside Rex, made a quick check, then without even trying to conceal his anger, glared up at Tools. "Why did you do that?!" he demanded. "You know that isn't permitted!"

"Don't tell me how to do my job, Staff Sergeant," Tools snarled in return. "You were going to sit there and let him kill the captain."

"He's unconscious!"

Captain Skidz got to his feet and held the back of his hand to his lip. Still bloodied. "Enough of this. Let's go."

As he turned to leave, he heard a voice behind him.

It was Commander Wolffe. "Wait! You can't leave him like that!"

"Be grateful I'm not leaving him in much worse condition," Skidz replied, then he exited the cell, taking his soldiers with him.

 _ **NOTE: Yes, Rex is going through the wringer, but if you'll recall, the Rex who arrives at ARC training is not quite the Rex we see in the series. He's a bit more jovial and wild than the Rex of the series. Yet, to my mind, the series-Rex still has a certain degree of easiness and cockiness about him, but we only see it rarely. I wanted to create a scenario that would result in the Rex we see in the series, how he came to be that officer. This is the first step in that process, from my storyline. Of course, once Anakin joins the picture, we see how much he shapes the soldier that Rex becomes. Thanks for indulging my vision!**_


	76. Chapter 75

_**Dear Reader, thank you for the reviews of the last chapter, Ms CT-782, Freedom Phantom, The Unnamed Guest, Sued13, Alia 13, Guest, and Rohirrim Girl. I am very appreciative, especially since the chapter was rather brutal. This chapter has some syrup in it, which I tried to keep to a minimum, because I personally don't like sugary stuff. But even so, there's some molasses here! Cheers, CS**_

* * *

Chapter 74 Brother to Brother

" _If I hold my hands to you, though you never ask me to,  
you will know it's time for the rains to come,  
and you must help me through._

 _If you feel the fear on me that I know the eye can't see,  
it comes with the sadness that the autumn brings,  
so we know what has to be."_

 _Rain Dance_  
Stuart Adamson

* * *

Commander Wolffe waited until Captain Skidz and his entourage were gone.

"2303, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Sir." The Shinie got to his knees, and given that he'd not been placed back in ankle cuffs, he was free to move about the cell. He did not need to be told what to do. He was beside CT-7567 in an instant.

"He's breathing," he announced. After a brief examination, he announced, "He's out cold. They—they really did him over." He spent the next several minutes trying to rouse him, but to no avail.

"Just stay with him," Wolffe ordered. "We've got to get someone down here. The rest of you, start making noise. Scream, shout, whatever it takes . . . "

For nearly thirty minutes, they kicked up a ruckus; but the only response was when the guard at the end of the corridor came down.

"You can make as much noise as you want," he stated, though his voice seemed to belie a disconcertedness, as if he himself were no longer fully on board with all that was transpiring. "It won't get you out of here any sooner."

"We're not trying to get out," Wolffe replied. "But he needs help. Bring down the camp commander or at least one of the docs—or a medic. He needs medical attention."

The man appeared to be considering. Certainly, the sight of CT-7567 lying unconscious and badly beaten was causing the guard to have some hesitation in his decision. But before he could make a determination, the sound of a door opening at the end of the corridor prompted him to leave without taking action.

A minute later, the guard returned with several others members of the PI team. And with them were Commander Cody and CT-2876. Both were bound and blindfolded, but instead of being shackled to the wall, they were simply shoved inside the cell and left to stand, baffled and confused, as the door was shut and locked behind them.

CT-2303 waited until the guards were gone, then he untied the two men, both of whom had clearly had their share in the receipt of punishment, though they did not look quite as bad as the cell's other occupants.

Before he had even gathered his bearings, Cody's gaze fell upon the inert figure of his roommate, lying face down on the dirt floor of the prison cell.

"Fek and all, what happened?" he asked, dropping down beside Rex and trying to find some place—any place—on Rex's body where he could touch him that was not showing some kind of injury.

"There was a fight," 2303 replied. "They bashed him on the back of the head. He's been unconscious ever since."

"How long ago was that?"

"Twenty-five, thirty minutes, maybe."

"Damn . . . " Cody was stunned to find how much effort it was taking him to maintain his composure in the face of what he was seeing; for the blow to the head was clearly only one part of what had obviously been a continuum of torturous activity.

"He's hurt badly, Commander," 2303 stated. "None of us have these kinds of marks . . . I don't know what they did to him."

"Let me take a look," Cody said with a show of authoritative calm, knowing that the others would be looking to him to set the tone. "CT-2303, you and 2876 go check on the others."

"Yes, Commander."

Cody began a very gentle, cautious examination of Rex's injuries. He remained stone-faced, which was the demeanor that came naturally to him when facing difficult situations. He had built his reputation on his ability to maintain an even keel, to ride out the tide of emotion without ever giving into it. It wasn't that he was without emotion – quite the contrary. Rather, he knew the importance of keeping his emotions in check. With a sense of irony, it occurred to him that it was that very trait he had been trying to instill in his volatile roommate; and now he could not help but wonder if Rex's volatility had brought this degree of abuse upon him or whether it had provided the tenacity Rex would have needed in order to have endured such punishment.

As he looked over the raised flesh of countless welts, of which more than a dozen had broken the skin, he remarked internally that during the brief period of his own interrogation, he'd not been subjected to anything that would have caused such marks. Seeing Rex's swollen and cracked feet, he further noted that, again, he'd not undergone that particular torture. Granted, his own interrogation seemed to have been cut short amidst a great deal of agitation; and a peculiar sense of urgency had accompanied his delivery to the holding cell. He'd gotten the impression of a brewing discontent, trouble in the making. Now, seeing Rex and learning of what had recently transpired, he had an idea of what that trouble might be.

He carefully touched Rex's shoulder and leaned close to his ear. "Rex? Rex, come on. Come on, wake up." He injected a bit more command into his voice. "CT-7567, can you hear me? Wake up."

His persistence was at last rewarded with an abrupt, shaking inhalation, followed by Rex's voice, alarmingly feeble.

"Cody?"

Cody allowed himself to feel some small relief. "Yeah, it's me. I hear you've been picking fights."

Several seconds passed before Rex replied with an attempt at returning the humor, "I lost." After a considerable pause, he asked, "Are we done?" His entire body was already beginning to shiver and quake.

"Not yet," Cody replied. "Soon, I think." He actually took note of the words Rex had chosen to ask the question. Not, _"Is it over?"_ or _"Has it ended?"_ No, that would give too much power to the men in charge of the operation. _"Are we done?"_ implied that some part, however small, of the decision-making process still resided with the prisoners.

"Where are we?"

"In a holding cell," Cody replied. "All of us. The whole squad is here."

"Th-they're okay?" Rex's voice was succumbing to the tremors rattling through his body.

Cody was truthful. "Everyone's been roughed up, but uh, I can safely say that you've taken the worst of it." He manufactured a small grin. "No surprise." A pause. "You've got a lot of bruises and welts. Does it feel like anything's broken?"

Rex did not answer the question, but after several seconds, he spoke. "Cody?"

"Yes?"

"I—I don't want th-them to see this."

Cody was perplexed. "To see what?"

"Me . . . like this."

"Rex . . . " Cody's voice was complacent. "They can see it."

Rex felt some lessening of the turmoil in his mind. Cody's words, spoken without judgment, without accusation, were a release, permission to produce a display of emotional histrionics as would bring the house down. But such a performance Rex had already given. He had a vague recollection of his fight with Captain Skidz and the hot ember that had embedded itself in his brain and driven him nearly mad with vengeance. That one loss of control had been enough. He would not do it again.

He spoke in a whisper. "If they c-come back for m-me . . . I can't go th-through that again."

"We're not going to worry about that," Cody chided. "For now, you need to just lay still and keep quiet. I'm going to try and get someone down here, so we can end this thing."

And because it was Cody, Rex believed him. Everything would be alright.

* * *

"Sir, Staff Sergeant Denal is here to see you. He says it's an emergency.

"Sergeant Denal?" Colonel Claw had started to smile at the mention of the name. It was always a pleasure to see Sergeant Denal, but the mention of _an emergency_ brought a more serious expression to the colonel's face. "Absolutely, send him in."

The command administrative officer disappeared, and Sergeant Denal reported in with a salute so crisp and sharp that Colonel Claw had a flash thought of how unfortunate it was that not all soldiers were like him.

"Sergeant Denal, this is a surprise. I don't see you as often as I would wish." A pause. "You said it was an emergency?"

"Yes, Sir," Denal replied. "We have trouble down in 88."

"It's Commander Cody's squad going through right now, am I correct?"

"Yes, Sir. And CT-7567."

Claw gave a knowing look. "CT-7567, of course. What's the trouble?"

"Captain Skidz is taking out a personal vendetta on CT-7567 . . . and the whole squad."

Colonel Claw was speechless but only for a moment. "That's quite a charge, Sergeant. What makes you say that?"

"I've seen the punishment they've inflicted on them," Denal replied. "If you go down to the holding cell, you'll be able to see for yourself, Sir."

"Have you spoken to Captain Skidz about this?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And?"

"He said you had given him permission to experiment with prohibited forms of punishment."

Up until this point, the colonel had thought that perhaps Sergeant Denal was merely being moved by the same forces that seemed to make soldiers gravitate towards the enigmatic 729th lieutenant; but this last statement disturbed him. The subject of experimenting with prohibited methods of torture had never come up in any conversations with Captain Skidz.

"What sort of punishments?"

"I wasn't actually there to see the interrogation, Sir, but when 611 and I went to bring CT-7567 back to interrogation just now, there were some pretty bad marks on his legs and back," Denal replied. "And right now, I'm coming from the holding cell. There was a fight between—"

"A fight?"

"Between Captain Skidz and CT-7567. When I left, CT-7567 was unconscious. Sergeant Tools had given him an elbow to the back of the head."

"Where is CT-7567 now?"

"Still in the holding cell."

"And Captain Skidz?"

"I don't know, Sir. We all left the cell together. I've been getting my ass chewed for the last fifteen minutes at least. After that, I came straight here."

Colonel Claw pressed his wrist comm. "Commander Steed. Major Tides. Meet me in five minutes down in 88, block . . . "

"K-block, Sir."

"K-block. And bring a doc with you." A pause. "And find Captain Skidz. Have him report to my office and wait here until I get back." Then to Sergeant Denal. "Let's go."

* * *

"Everyone checks out okay, Commander," CT-2876 reported. "They're all banged up, but nothing too serious. I tried to free them from the shackles, but no luck." He took a lingering look at CT-7567. "How's the lieutenant?"

Cody gave a noncommittal head tilt.

"Why would they be so hard on him?"

"I understood they were competitors growing up," Cody replied. "And not friendly competitors."

"But why this? Why do these things to him? I can't believe it's allowed to do this sort of thing to a prisoner," 2876 pressed incredulously. "What kind of beating makes those marks? A whip?"

"No, a whip would have broken a lot more skin," Cody deferred. "It looks like caning or . . . reed striping."

"Surely that isn't permitted."

Cody frowned. "Does it look like they care what is or isn't permitted?"

From his place against the wall, Wolffe spoke out, "Well, they're going to care as soon as this is over. As soon as these cuffs come off, there's going to be a brawl."

"No, there isn't," Cody said definitively. "No fighting. I have confidence that the leadership will take appropriate action."

"With all due respect, Commander, you've had us shouting for the leadership to come down here for the past thirty minutes. Not even the guard is coming down anymore to see what's going on," Wolffe replied. "And I'm willing to bet that Rex would want us to even the score."

Cody waited before answering, and when he did, it was simple. "No, he wouldn't." In the stillness of his own thoughts, he conceded, _"A few days ago, you'd probably have been right. But not anymore. He wants this to go away, to be forgotten. So do I."_

It was a difficult admission. A week ago—less than a week ago—Cody had been so furious with Rex, that he might have considered a few days at the E&E prisoner-of-war camp to be fitting recompense for his roommate's aggressive and thoughtless behavior. Granted, his opinion of Rex's abilities had never wavered, not even in the smallest degree. He'd seen in him something he'd rarely seen in other clones, and that was an unremitting enthusiasm for getting the job done – not just out of a sense of duty, but because Rex knew he was a good soldier, a good fighter, and he was excited to prove it at every moment that availed itself. What had irked Cody was the often thoughtless drive to be number one that often overflowed from that enthusiasm – a drive that had been insensitive to the cost on more than one occasion. It was a difference that marked the line between a great soldier . . .

. . . and the best soldier.

Cody frowned as a sudden realization struck him. He had his own limitations, and now he added short-sightedness to the list.

There was a flurry of sound outside the cell in the corridor, followed shortly by the appearance of the guard. With him were Staff Sergeant Denal and Colonel Claw. The guard opened the cell. Denal followed the colonel inside. Immediately after they entered, three more of the cadre appeared in the corridor: Commander Steed, Major Tides, and one of the camp's doctors, a Kaminoan male named Dakat-Su.

The tension inside the cell was so strong as to be a physical presence that one could reach out and touch. The eyes that were turned towards the ARC training commander and his small entourage simmered with anger, straining for a release. Only Cody gave the appearance of equanimity.

Dakat-Su crouched down on his gangly legs to examine Rex while the rest of the cadre looked on.

"N-not here . . . " Rex spluttered in delirium. "Not in—in front of . . . my soldiers."

The doctor ignored him, and with the colonel looking on over his shoulder, he removed the prison shirt top that had been draped partly over Rex's body. He scrutinized several streaks of broken skin on his back and legs.

"When did you receive these injuries?" he asked.

" _What sort of idiot question is that?"_ was Rex's first thought, but his response was civil. "I d-don't even know wh-what day it is."

The doctor continued his examination.

Behind him, Colonel Claw watched with an impassive face, not wanting to betray his own disgust and shock at what he was seeing. He would save his condemnation for those who deserved it. A one-word inquiry was all he needed.

"Excessive?"

The doctor nodded once on his long stalk of a neck.

"Does anyone else have injuries like this?" the colonel asked, looking around him.

"No, Sir," Cody replied.

"Does anyone else require immediate medical attention?"

"I don't think so." Again, from Cody.

Colonel Claw turned to his two training officers. "Release them. Take them all to the clinic, then come to my office." He raised his voice a bit. "The exercise is over."

He left without another word.

"You are sure there is no one else who requires immediate attention?" Dakat-Su asked.

"We're sure," Cody replied.

"Can you walk, CT-7567?" the Kaminoan asked.

Again, Rex was struck with the inanity of the question.

"N-not very likely," he stuttered.

Dakat-Su spoke into his wrist comm and ordered a gurney be brought to the cell.

Within ten minutes, the gurney arrived, Rex was loaded up and ready to go.

Cody stayed beside him, and as they left the cell, he put a cautious, tentative hand on Rex's arm. " _Now_ , we're done."

* * *

Cody looked at himself in the mirror.

He had only a couple bruises to show for his brief stint as a prisoner. They were growing deeper in colors of purple and red right now, but in a week, they would be almost gone. So minor, they didn't warrant a trip to the bacta tank. Not even a bacta strip.

A day and a half ago, upon the premature and ordered termination of the exercise, Cody had been taken to the infirmary, along with his squad mates, for examination and treatment of any injuries. He and CT-2876, and CT-9218 had been released directly. Wolffe, Bly and CT-1789 weren't far behind, being sent back to their quarters later that evening. CT-2303 had been kept overnight.

Dakat-Su had been noncommittal as to how long Rex would be in the infirmary. The doctor had ordered Rex's installation in a bacta tank immediately following upon a thorough examination. That had been two nights ago, and Cody had not seen him since. No visitors had been allowed, which was a fairly standard procedure when a patient was undergoing bacta tank treatment.

And it might have irritated Cody had not he not already had his hands full, trying to keep the peace back among the trainees. For once word of what had happened got back to Rex's Echo Squad, the outrage that had been confined to the members of his E&E teammates expanded to Echo Squad and beyond, reaching nearly explosive levels, with Cody and CT-2025 seeming to be the only ones not interested in exacting a fitting revenge.

Over in Delta Squad, Gree—Rex's long-time friend and podmate—fanned the flames of anger and indignation. He took what had happened as a personal affront, the sort of thing that should never happen to someone like Rex.

And he was right.

Cody had come to that same conclusion almost immediately upon seeing the torture that his roommate had endured. How had a training exercise gone that haywire? When had the purpose of the exercise turned from teaching the trainees how to avoid capture and resist torture to inflicting enough pain and agony to break one man's will?

Rex might have the kind of personality that invited some men to despise him in the same degree as it inspired other men to revere him; but even Cody had seen for himself that those men who'd started off wary of Rex had eventually been won over by him.

Whatever had been in Captain Skidz's heart that had prevented him from moving on, from forgetting whatever perceived wrong had been perpetrated against him by Rex, it had apparently festered long enough that as soon as the chance presented itself, the captain had acted upon it.

And now he'd paid for it.

Cody had word directly from Commander Steed that Captain Skidz had been relieved of duty, along with Lieutenant 44 and Master Sergeant Tools. What their final disposition would eventually be, he did not know; and while it was a question of some importance to his fellow trainees, it was nowhere in the upper echelons of Cody's mind. He really did not care what happened to the trio, as long as they were not returned to their same positions.

What he cared about, what worried him, was the impact the whole ordeal had had on Rex. Their few minutes together in the cell prior to Colonel Claw's arrival had given little indication as to what Cody should expect from his roommate. And this uncertainty, more than anything else, weighed heavily upon him as he prepared for the day's activities – which amounted to very little, given the rest of the squads were still involved in their debriefings of the E&E exercise.

He was about to leave his room when the intercom buzzed.

Opening the door, he found himself face-to-face with a clone in white medic's garb. "Commander Cody. Dakat-Su wanted me to tell you the CT-7567 is out of the bacta tank and in a regular room. You can come see him if you like."

Cody felt an honest smile tug lift the corners of his mouth. "That's good news. Thanks. I'll be there shortly."

The medic departed.

Cody returned to his image in the mirror. "Now, you need to figure out what you're going to say to him," he told himself out loud. He was keenly aware that his last few verbal exchanges with Rex prior to the exercise had been cutting and intentionally so. He didn't regret it. He only worried now what effect those exchanges would have on the current situation. Knowing Rex, Cody could only guess at how any conversation would go.

* * *

"So, what do you think will happen?"

The members of Echo Squad were gathered in their common area. They had completed their own E&E, minus CT-7567 and Shinie 9218, at the same time that the latter two had been undergoing their own exercise with their makeshift squad. CT-2025 had done a fine job leading them, despite the fact that they'd all been captured and subjected to the rigors of the mock prisoner-of-war camp. They'd had a completely different PI team—still under Skidz's control—as their aggressors. But they'd not come into contact with any of the other squads going through training at the same time. The compound was large enough that the squads could be kept separated.

They'd had no idea what had been going on with any other squad. But upon finding out, a rising tide of anger and resentment had begun to swell within their ranks.

It was CT-2025 who had kept the peace. And now as he fielded the question from CT-9090, who was always raring for a fight, he was careful to phrase his answer in a way that would not provoke a stoking of the flames.

"Well, Skidz and the top members of his team have been relieved of duty," 2025 said evenly. "I imagine there will be an investigation."

"They need to be court-martialed," 9090 opined with a sneer.

"They might yet be," 2025 replied. "It's in the hands of the military justice system now."

There was a moment of tense silence.

"What if the lieutenant doesn't come back?" This from CT-8462.

It was CT-9218 who answered. "He'll come back. There's no way he'd go through all of this training just to miss out at the end." He went on, sounding a bit less certain. "I mean, I saw him. He was . . . definitely in a bad way, but I think they can fix him up pretty quickly. They got Commander Wolffe back on his feet after a day or two."

"It would _burn Jo'cha's_ if he didn't graduate." CT-5576 offered the Bothan colloquialism used by many walker-jockeys. It was a euphemism for the negative consequences of a male getting a blow to his nether regions. And it was fitting for the moment.

"Of course, he's going to graduate," CT-390 piped up. "They wouldn't dare hold back the top trainee." He looked from face to face. "We all know there's no one better. He outperformed everyone."

There was a murmur of agreement.

CT-9090 got to his feet and paced across the room. "Kind of weird, isn't it?"

"What?" 5576 asked.

"We're all supposed to be equals here . . . " A smile spread slowly across his face. "But we talk about him as if he really is our squad leader."

CT-2025 got to his feet and clapped his brother's shoulder with a return smile. "That's because he is."

* * *

"Room 2B, Commander."

Cody nodded at the orderly and headed down the corridor.

The infirmary—like all clone infirmaries—was a sterile and unwelcoming place. There was never any attempt at making clone medical facilities anything other than functional. Comfort had significance only in so far as it meant that a patient was not physically at odds with his surroundings. The concepts of warmth and familiarity held no sway. Warmth was a contributing factor to softness. And as far as familiarity went, the clones had grown up in the cold and textureless environment of Kamino. They were used to this sort of starkness.

The facility, though large, appeared to only have a dozen or so inpatients – and that was from among all the various training courses being run concurrently on the installation.

Cody remarked on the quietness as he strode down the corridor towards room 2B. He was still wondering what sort of scene he would be met with. He grinned inwardly at his descriptor of Rex, _predictably unpredictable_. It was certainly proving to be true, for he had no idea what to expect when he walked through that door.

He came to 2B and did not even break his stride before going inside.

The moment was anti-climactic.

There was one bed in the room. One occupant.

And he was sleeping.

Cody walked to the bed for a closer look. _"Not too bad,"_ he said silently, noting some faded facial bruising and several gashes that had the pink veneer of newly formed skin to mark their existence. Yes, bacta tanks were one of the greatest medical devices ever created. Still, Cody knew there were more injuries healing beneath the layers of sheets and covers. And he could still see the slight flush of color as the last remnants of infection and fever were left to the devices of Rex's own body, without the aid of the bacta tank. The medical gurus had always believed it was important for the patient to fight at least part of the battle on his own, to build up antibodies and immunities, to condition the body to fight injury and infection.

" _You'll pull through this without any problem,"_ Cody continued his internal dialog. _"I'm counting on you, you know. I made a lot of promises, and you can't let me down."_

There was a single chair in the corner. Cody sat down. There was nothing else to do in the room. Nothing to read. Nothing to look at. Just him and Rex. Fortunately, for Cody, he was well adapted to spending long periods of time doing nothing. Hyperspace travel required as much.

For over an hour, he stayed there. He wasn't really sure why. On one hand, he was waiting for Rex to wake up. He wanted the opportunity to talk to him – about anything. He wanted to know that they could resume a normal, friendly interaction. On the other hand, he felt a strange sense of responsibility: a fraternal leaning that he had remarkably never experienced before meeting Rex.

To be sure, Cody had always felt the weight and obligation of being a leader of the clone troops. As first-in-command of a prestigious unit, he'd known what it was to show the way _and_ be the backbone. His soldiers had been his priority.

But ever since the first moment this brash lieutenant had come tumbling into their dormitory room and announcing himself as the roommate, Cody had begun to see his fellow clones—albeit unwillingly and haltingly at first—from the perspective of a brother. An older brother, in fact. He was there to set the example, to guide them, to be the peacemaker when necessary, to bring pressure to bear when a bit of impetus was needed.

Looking at Rex, he readily recalled the charges.

 _You're indecisive. You change your mind too much. You don't want to take any risks._

All of which might be true. But wasn't it the role of an older brother to make sure that his siblings didn't get carried away with their own enthusiasm? Wasn't it incumbent upon him to temper the blade as it was being forged?

Rex was right that Cody was cautious, and Cody was willing to make some adjustments. But the commander was not willing to forsake his place as the arbiter of prudence and temperance.

And speaking of prudence, after nearly ninety minutes, he concluded that his presence might be needed elsewhere instead of sitting here beside the bed of a sleeping man. Force only knew what was going on back in the trainee barracks. Certainly, he trusted Wolffe to maintain order among angry men, but he had to admit that Wolffe himself was a bit of a hothead . . .

He rose and headed for the door.

"Leaving already?"

Rex's voice surprised Cody. A smile crept into his expression as he returned to the bed. "Already? I've been here for over an hour. I thought you were asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

"I was just resting my eyes."

Cody crossed his arms over his chest and regarded him with an assessing gaze. "Well, you don't look too bad. How do you feel?"

"About the same as I look," Rex replied. After a brief pause, he added quietly, "I feel stupid. Embarrassed."

Cody knit his brows. "Why?"

Rex looked at him expectantly. "Do you really need to ask me that?"

"Yes," Cody replied, as if it were obvious. "Because I can't see why you should be embarrassed or feel stupid."

Rex slowly lowered his eyes. A long hesitation preceded his answer. "Because they broke me," he said in a voice tinged with humiliation. "They broke me to a point where I was ready to tell them everything."

Cody looked at him for several seconds. "Did you?"

"I lied to them," Rex replied. "But they knew I was lying. If they'd kept on me, I would have told them the truth. I would have broken faith with my brothers." A pause. "It was even worse that I fell apart in front of the squad. After all the things I've said about setting the example and being a leader, I completely crumbled."

"And you think they hold that against you?"

"Why not? I would. I do. I hold it against myself."

Cody drew in a long, steady breath. "We saw what they did to you, Rex," he stated. "We saw your legs and your back and your feet." A pause. "They tortured you."

Rex groaned dismissively. "E&E's version of torture."

" _Real_ torture, Rex," Cody corrected. "Seriously enough to put you in a bacta tank for two days."

But his words fell on deaf ears. "I should have been stronger."

Cody frowned as he was reminded just how difficult his roommate could be. "Do you think you're made of stone?"

After a few seconds, Rex replied, "I wish I were."

"You're too hard on yourself," the commander chastised. "Captain Skidz and his team went way over the line, and everyone recognized it. Colonel Claw saw fit to relieve him, and that should tell you something."

Rex closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "Why'd he do that? Why'd he relieve him?"

"Why? Because he deserved it, Rex. He was taking out his anger over some past . . . insult, and they were beating the osik out of you—"

"You're being overly dramatic again," Rex cut him off. "Skidz was just doing his job—"

"Oh, for crying out loud, are you still delirious?" Cody snapped. "Don't make excuses for that bastard."

Rex was silent for several seconds, then he stated dully, "Well, I guess it doesn't really matter anyway. Looks like my ARC training is over."

"Why?" Cody came back directly. "We're almost at the end. You'll finish."

"We still have one module—"

"Computer-less nav, which you can do from your bed if you have to," Cody interrupted. "But you'll be on your feet in a couple days, I'm sure. Plenty of time to complete the course."

"Yeah, well . . . we'll see."

Cody knit his brows and scrutinized him. "Do you want to finish the course?"

Rex gave a half-shrug. "It doesn't seem that important any more. Not that it ever was."

"Boy, you are full of _hraka_ ," Cody scoffed. "You've been gunning for the number one slot since the day you got here. Now, you want to pretend it doesn't matter to you? Rex . . . don't let what happened turn you into someone you're not."

At these words, Rex raised his eyes and looked at Cody with an expression that was not quite accusative but nor was it exonerating. "You told me I wasn't serious enough," he said evenly. "I thought you were just being you—too serious, too cautious." A pause. "I should have listened."

There was a hard block of silence before Cody summoned the courage to say what came next.

"I was wrong."

Rex's regarded him curiously.

"You any other way wouldn't be you," Cody explained. "It's what makes the men want to follow you, even when they're not sure where you're leading them." He diverted his gaze but continued to speak with conviction. "I'll tell you the truth, Rex: I'm . . . a little envious of you. The men gravitate towards you, and you don't even have to try." A pause. "You know, I have to work at it."

His words were incomprehensible. That the renowned Commander Cody, easily the greatest among all the clone troopers, should be envious of him . . .

"Yeah, well . . . not everyone likes me," Rex said uncomfortably, thinking the commander was being far too generous in his praise. "Even you hated me at the beginning."

"When we first met, I wasn't sure you were ARC material," Cody admitted. "You seemed to be the kind of man who played by his own rules, who wanted to win at any cost." A pause. "But then I saw how you were with your squad, how they all took on that same mindset . . . and I realized that, even though I was right about you, I was also wrong. You seemed to realize better than the rest of us that defeat, even in training, translated into defeat in combat . . . death. No one plays by the rules when blaster bolts are flying. Your squad mates picked that up immediately. Even members in other squads got that from you." He tilted his head to one side in an expression of concession. "What looked to me like carelessness and recklessness looked to others like the kind of leader they'd want to follow into combat. I didn't think you were being serious, but you were; and the other trainees knew that."

Rex let his words sink in.

After a long period during which neither spoke, Cody again was the one to break the silence. "I want to ask you something."

Rex gave a single nod. "Go ahead."

"Why blond?"

 _Why blond?_

It was certainly not a question Rex would have expected, but he found it interesting and was surprised to discover that he had a ready answer.

"Because I wanted to be noticed," he replied. "I wanted to stand out."

"Well, you certainly achieved that."

Rex went on thoughtfully. "But I also . . . it seems contradictory, but I also wanted to teach my men that—that the real difference is in here." He tapped his chest. "Their outward appearance should be a reflection of who they are inside, and even though we're clones, none of us are the same at heart. None of us should be afraid to stand out."

Cody could not help but feel that he had once again overlooked what was best in Rex.

And it amazed him that, among the millions of clones thus far produced, he should, perchance and perhaps by fate, end up with this particular man at this particular time. He did not know what the future would bring, but he would always know that the six weeks of ARC training had brought him face-to-face with a man who was, in many ways, his direct opposite, and yet, a man worth emulating.

"You're right," he agreed, adding teasingly, "Although I imagine you would have stood out even without the blond hair."

Here, Rex cracked a small grin. "True. But . . . I look good with it."

Cody replied in kind. "That's a matter of opinion."


	77. Chapter 76

_**Dear Reader, Thank you to Ms CT-782, the Unnamed Guest, Freedom Phantom, my two mystery guests, and Daniela for your reviews! Much appreciated! Well, this is the final chapter in the ARC arc. The next chapter will resume with the battle of Kamino and Ahsoka still back on Bertegad. I hope you've enjoyed this very long flashback. Peace and happy reading. CS**_

Chapter 75 ARC Troopers

" _Utrinque Paratus" (Ready for Anything)_

The Motto of British Parachute Regiment

* * *

"Lieutenant!"

"Rex! You're back!"

"I knew they couldn't keep you in there for long."

Such was the reception when Rex walked unexpectedly into Echo Squad's training room. It was akin to a hero's welcome, with his squad mates tossing off any pretense of cool professionalism. There were plenty of back and shoulder slaps, expressions of genuine happiness at his return, and subtle glances to discern any lingering injuries.

Following the bacta tank, Rex had spent three days in a patient room, doing everything he could to show his attending doctors that he was recovered enough to be released. And truth be told, the staff was as anxious to see him go as he was to get out. Rex was a terrible patient, complaining, fidgeting, constantly pressing to be cleared and returned to duty. He tended towards the ornery side when confined to bed, and the fact that his feet were the slowest healing part of his body only intensified his unpleasant temperament.

He'd had plenty of visitors during those three days – a circumstance which put him in a quandary. On one hand, he was flattered that so many of his fellow trainees had wanted to come see him. On the other hand, he hated people worrying about and fussing over him. He might enjoy the attention that came with a great accomplishment on the battle field; but the attention he was receiving now, based on his incapacitation, had an embarrassing element to it, a certain sense of weakness. And Rex despised weakness – in himself, at least.

On the fourth day, he'd been cleared to return to training. The one remaining module was not physically demanding; and that was a good thing, for Rex would not have been up to it. He was well-healed, but not fully healed. Still, he was determined to complete the training, even if only by the skin of his teeth. He imagined that his performance during E&E had probably amassed a number of demerits, and to his mind, there was no guarantee that he would graduate from ARC training.

But there was no doubt among his squad mates. Judging from their reactions as he'd walked in, they had full confidence that they would finish ARC training as they'd started – as a squad, ten men, a team, each contributing in his own way to their collective success. In fact, if it were possible, they appeared to hold Rex in an even higher esteem than before.

CT-2025 stepped forward. "Good to see you back on your feet, Rex."

Rex was humble. And as foreign as it was to his squad mates, it was even more awkward for him, as he'd never experienced it before in any significant degree. "I'm just glad they didn't kick me out."

2025 regarded him with a puzzled expression. "Why would they kick you out? You weren't the one who broke the rules. You were the one who paid for it."

"I didn't exactly act with the most . . . dignity," Rex replied.

"To hell with dignity," CT-9090 pushed forth. "They turned an exercise into one man's vendetta. And you _still_ beat them."

"I would hardly say I beat them," Rex demurred. "It sure didn't feel that way."

"I wish we'd been there," CT-5576 stated.

"So do I," Rex agreed.

There was some small talk, inquiries after his health and a careful probing for details of the ordeal. But when it became clear that he did not want to discuss his time in the POW camp, his squad mates shifted their focus and did not press him.

"Tomorrow is nav," 9090 announced. "You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Rex replied. "You know it's my worst area. Cody's been a lot of help, but I don't know if it's enough." He shrugged with false nonchalance. "If I wash, I wash."

"You're not going to wash," CT-390, now known as Smoke, deferred. "I'd bet all I own on it."

Rex chuckled. "I don't want you to lose your handful of credits on a shaky bet."

CT-2025 watched Rex with the others. He was very much the same as he'd been at the beginning of ARC training, and yet there was a definite change – although precisely what that change was did not lend itself so readily to explanation. Perhaps it was a sort of reserve that had not been there before. There might be a slight hint of increased humility. It was not fully clear.

"Speaking of which . . . I suppose I'd better get some more practice in," Rex concluded.

"You want any company?" 2025 asked.

"Cody's waiting for me," Rex replied. A grin. "He's plenty company."

* * *

It was the following day; and as Rex sat down at his console, one in a bank of a hundred consoles, most of them occupied by his fellow trainees, he drew in a deep breath and settled in for what he already knew to be his most likely area for failure.

He looked to his right, where, three consoles down, Cody sat calm and self-assured.

" _And he envies me? He's brilliant at everything,"_ Rex said to himself. _"I could use some of his confidence right now. Hell, I could use some of his skill."_

"Test Number One!" The instructor announced, drawing Rex's attention.

The computer-less navigation exam consisted of seven tests. The first four were allotted thirty minutes each, and each trainee had a different set of coordinates to calculate. The last three were "emergency" calculations, the first allotted three minutes; the second, two minutes; and the third, one minute.

Rex waited for the data to populate on his console. Once the figures were up, a green light illuminated on the screen, and the test started. He began working, and in twenty minutes, he was ready to hit the submit button. Yet, he hesitated. A glance at Cody showed the commander still working his calculations.

" _There's no way I would finish before Cody,"_ Rex cautioned himself. _"Yeah, but he's probably checking his figures for the tenth time . . . you know he's like that."_ He grit his teeth. _"Stop second-guessing yourself. If you're right, you're right. If you're wrong . . . you have six more exercises. Maybe."_

The _maybe_ was the qualifier, for a wrong calculation did not necessarily mean immediate failure. There were three possibilities. If the status light showed green, it meant the calculations were correct and the jump was a success. Yellow meant the calculations were incorrect, but the jump had not resulted in the destruction of the vessel. A yellow status light meant the trainee still had the opportunity to recalculate from the new location in the remaining time. Red meant that the calculations had flown the ship straight into a planet or star or other non-recoverable celestial occurrence.

Rex punched the button.

Green!

 _Green!_

Not red. Not yellow _. Green!_

Rex slapped his palm against the bridge of the console in pleased self-congratulation. True, it might be only the first test, but he had passed; and that was more than he would have done even two weeks ago. He turned his head to see Cody looking back at him with an approving and encouraging nod.

One down.

Six to go.

Ninety minutes later, Rex was ready to crow his own victory.

With four tests behind him—and all green—he was now growing anxious to be done with the whole thing. One more area he had mastered, and now all that really remained was to graduate and head back to the 729th.

He was growing weary of sitting in one place, one position for so long. His feet had begun to throb, reminding him that he was still not fully well. And the newly bacta-generated dermis was itching beneath his armor in more than one place.

"You will have three minutes to complete this next test," the proctor stated. "Keep in mind. A failure to jump is less damaging than a jump that results in your destruction."

" _Keep in mind that a computer could do all this in seconds,"_ Rex said in an inward, snide voice, for although he was proud of his achievement, he still considered learning the technique to be a waste of time. Computers and droids existed for just such tasks.

His console flashed green for him to begin.

The examination was a single jump but with a wide range for accuracy. The other jumps had allowed for no more than a .000001 parsec deviation. This exercise allowed for .0001. Rex began his calculations, working with greater haste than the previous exercises. The numbers provided for this particular jump were not as complex as the lengthier exercises, but he still took the time to double-check that he was inputting them properly. Even so, he kept coming up with a system that did not have the clearance between planets to possibly match the given coordinates. The chronometer on his console read two minutes.

" _What am I doing wrong?"_ he fumed silently. _"These are the right figures. The system's star has all the right spectrograph readings."_ He cleared the data completely and started over again.

And again the same results.

Thirty seconds.

" _Why isn't this working—"_

And that was when he noticed. The coordinates for his own current position in relation to the system had been changed from the previous exercises.

"Damn!" he cursed under his breath, moving swiftly to make the changes. With less than a second to spare, he had input the last of his new coordinates. No sooner had he punched the submit button than he realized his error.

As the screen glared red at him, he threw his head back in disgust.

He'd forgotten to refresh the jump coordinates after inputting the parallax. He'd flown right into one of the planet moons.

Around him, he heard groans of disappointment. A quick glance showed him that he was not the only one to fail this test. But that didn't make him feel any better. Having thirty minutes to plan a jump was perfectly acceptable when there was no urgency, when lives were not at stake. But in battle, there often was no luxury of time.

When he looked towards Cody, he was not surprised to see a satisfied expression on the commander's face. Of course, Cody had passed the test. Rex returned to his own screen with a glare.

"Sixth test begins in thirty seconds. You may begin when your console flashes green."

At this announcement, Cody looked over and saw the consternation etched on Rex's face.

"7567," he said just loud enough to ensure Rex heard him but loud enough to draw much attention.

Rex turned his head.

"Lunar hawk."

The commander's words, a complete surprise, actually made Rex smile. There were no hidden answers in the two words. Only the calling to mind of a successful outing and the beauty of the winged silhouette against the moon. The climb up through the forest, overnighting in the trees. The ease with which Cody had shown him how to make calculations . . .

. . . the soaring image of freedom.

Rex gave a nod of acknowledgment. Suddenly, the pressure abated, though there was no reason why it should have. Rex still cared about his performance, about passing the course. He still wanted to claim the title of ARC trooper. He still had wispy dreams of one day being a member of the 501st or some other elite unit. But in one unaccountable instant, the image of the hawk and the recollection of that amazing moment of sensing its freedom had chased away the bonds of constraint.

The console turned green and he began working the calculations. The target solar system had a star emitting an electromagnetic spectrum wavelength of 593 at 489 frequency and 2.08 photon energy. That narrowed the number of possibilities down to three. He chose the system with the closest matching parameters. Parallax numbers on a skewed hyperbolic arc meant that the figures should change as Rex's current position changed. And as if on cue, they went up by the precise fractions associated with a Type K supergiant.

And yet, the numbers brought him into collision with the star. He moved onto the second system but with nearly the same results. Rex knit his brows. The goal was to get within .01 angular rey of the star but not close enough to fall into its massive gravitation pull. This time, his calculations had not flown directly him into it, but he'd would have been too close to avoid getting sucked in. He went onto the third possibility, and this projection flew him almost directly into the star's center.

"Well, it has to be one of these three systems," he muttered. His chronometer read 75 seconds remaining. "Temp is on the warm side for a K," Rex muttered. "She must not have much juice left, but her size is what's driving the grav." A pause. "I have to take that into consideration. How many degrees wide do I need to aim to counteract the pull?"

His fingers swept smoothly over the console devices as he input set after set of numbers, looking for the combination of figures that would counteract the star's gravitational pull. He knew he had the bottom of the range in place, but the upper end seemed to have no limit.

Then a thought occurred to him.

She wasn't a Type K supergiant at all! She was a Type K dwarf! His premise that the orange color on the spectrum had somehow indicated a supergiant had been flawed. This star was already drawing in on itself, which was the true account of the strong gravity; and as Rex re-entered his parallax numbers based on the absolute magnitude of a much denser star, he saw the figures shift for the solar system he currently had pulled up on the screen.

The pinpoint was within .01 rey!

With almost a minute remaining on the screen, he punched the submit button.

"Ha!" he barked out, unable to contain his excitement as the screen lit up green. He slapped the top of the console. "HA!"

From the front of the room, the instructor spoke with calm reserve. "Is there a problem, CT-7567?"

"No, no problem at all," Rex beamed.

"Then I advise you to keep yourself within decorum," the instructor warned.

One minute later and the test was over. Again, an undertone of failure fluttered through the room, but this time, Rex was not part of it. Looking around him, he could tell by the looks on his brothers' faces who had passed and who had not. There was Cody, sanguine as ever. One row up sat Gree, and he made a point of turning and giving Rex a thumbs up to indicate his own success. Commander Wolffe, in the front row, sat quietly behind his glowing green console. As a fleet officer, non-aided navigation was something he could have done in his sleep, and he actually seemed bored with the tests.

Rex could not help but compare himself with how his fellow trainees were doing, with special attention to those troops who had already seen active duty. Not surprisingly, CT-5869 of the Coruscant Guard, breezed through, as did Rex's squad mate, CT-2025. Rex could easily see who were going to be the greats, and he had not yet given up hope of including himself among their number. Perhaps, most surprisingly, he noted that CT-5052—Bly, he had to get used to calling him that—appeared unmoved by the pressure of this final module. He sat before his own green screen waiting patiently for the last test.

And then they would know which trainees, from their remaining number, would become ARC troopers. From a starting class of eighty, they had lost only seven; and that was nothing short of miraculous, given ARC training's wash-out rate.

Rex believed, with some degree of self-absorption, that it was due to the high quality of this particular class of trainees.

"Test Seven will begin in thirty seconds."

The second the screen flashed ready, Rex began working through his numbers. Forty seconds later, he submitted his coordinates with twenty seconds to spare; and the green that glowed back at him reflected his final success. This time, he contained his exuberance. He smiled at the screen and drew in a deep breath as he realized that ARC training was now over.

Six weeks. It had passed in a flash. All that remained was graduation.

And now, it was sinking in that he would most likely never see most of these men again. In a three-million man Army, with another ten million in the making, it would be a rare occurrence to run across his fellow trainees over the course of the war, however long it might last. There also floated about, in the back of his head, the recognition that many of these men would be dead within a year. A sobering thought, but one that every clone knew intrinsically.

The final test now over, the instructor gave the floor over to Commander Steed, who'd arrived in the room to watch the last three tests. He stood in the front of the room and nodded appreciatively.

"Overall, an impressive performance by all of you," he acknowledged. "I know there were some of you who found non-assisted navigation to be a challenge." A pause. "And others of you found your challenges in other areas." He strode across the raised dais and regarded them in such a way that it made many of them think what an amazing field commander he must be. "And we'll know by tomorrow who will become an ARC trooper and who won't."

Rex lowered his eyes for several seconds. He had imagined that if someone was sitting in the room this far into the training, they had passed. Surely, any washouts would have already been dismissed. And how many had held off failing until this last test, only to be defeated by something so innocuous? Was it really possible that a trainee might have passed every other module only to be foiled by this?

"Graduation is tomorrow at 0900 sharp in the main assembly hall," Steed went on. "We'll all get our answers then. Dismissed."

Rex stood up and moved to join Cody.

"You don't think they'd really fail anyone this late in the game, do you? I mean, unless someone totally botched the nav tests, they—they wouldn't string someone along all this time just to tell them they didn't make it," he asked.

"This is ARC training, Rex," Cody replied evenly. "We're talking about the elites here. There's no room to be concerned about whether or not someone's feelings might get hurt. I'm sure they've been reviewing and ranking us on our performance over the entire course. A trainee who was average during the survival training may have redeemed himself during E&E. They're looking at the whole picture. And you don't get the whole picture until the end."

Rex appeared unconvinced. "Still seems a rotten thing to do. Get a guy's hopes up and then tell him, sorry, you weren't quite good enough."

Cody regarded him with a curious smile. "I'm surprised to hear you say something like that. That seems like an awfully . . . soft view of things."

"Don't call me soft," Rex warned with a rueful glare.

"I'm not calling you soft," Cody replied. "Just saying it's out-of-character."

Rex smirked. "It's the new me."

"I told you I didn't want a new you," Cody chastised. "Your faults are better than most men's strengths." He stepped out from behind his console. "Let's go get something to eat."

"I was going to go work on the jetpack some more. One last flight—"

Cody was not going to argue. "Okay, then, jetpacks it is. You can scrape up one for me, I assume?"

Rex grinned widely. "Of course, I can."

* * *

CT-5869 walked into the assembly hall, spotted his squad mates, and moved to join them. They'd taken to calling him Lieutenant Stone on account of his unshakeable presence under pressure; and he'd gladly accepted it. He liked that his reputation was that of solidity, and he attributed that quality—with no small amount of pride—to the fact of his service in the Coruscant Guard.

As he came down the aisle, he was intercepted by Commander Wolffe.

"Lieutenant Stone," the commander said in his usual gruff voice.

" _I can't believe he's actually calling me that,"_ CT-5869 said in silent amazement. _"I figured to him, I'm less than even a number."_

Out loud, he replied with a professional, "Commander Wolffe."

"You've changed my opinion about you," Wolffe said bluntly.

Stone didn't miss a beat. "Oh? Interesting, because I wasn't trying to."

"I know," the commander said. "If you'd been trying, I would have considered you weak, seeking approval. As it turns out, you're a lot more capable than I first thought. More capable than a lot of the other guys who are going to walk up on that stage in a few minutes."

Lieutenant Stone's modesty and diplomatic background prevented him from giving any acknowledgment other than a slight tilt of the head.

"Not that I've changed my opinion of the CG in general," Wolffe went on, as if he could not permit himself to be seen as too agreeable. "But you impressed me."

"I appreciate that, Sir."

"Huh! Here's a meeting of the minds I never would have imagined!" Gree appeared between the two, slapping them both of the shoulders. "Commander, aren't you afraid you might get some Coruscant slime on your—"

Wolffe rolled his eyes in good humor. "Gree, you're a Prumbelian Sopwipth." Then for good measure, he added, "When are you going to get a man's haircut?"

"Hey, hey! This is in honor of my fallen brothers," Gree reminded him.

"Yeah, and I can't believe they haven't come back from the grave yet to ask you why you couldn't find a better way to honor them," the commander prodded.

"I kind of like that look," Stone said with mock thoughtfulness. "Very eye-catching."

"Come visit the 7068th and half the squadron looks like this."

"Well, it still looks better than his majesty's," Wolffe stated, nodding towards the doorway where Rex had just walked in with CT-2025 and the rest of Echo Squad.

His two companions looked towards the door then back at the commander with doubtful expressions.

"What? Don't tell me you like that . . . _Gaber_ -fuzz?" Wolffe demanded.

"You can't deny that it suits him," Stone pointed out.

"To a tee," Gree added. "He was different when we were batch-kits. He's still different from every single one of us."

This, Wolffe would not contest, though he stuck by his original point. "He still looks like a fluff."

"Gentlemen, take your seats, please. The ceremony will begin in two minutes." This announcement from the sergeant-at-arms sent the milling trainees and cadre to their seats.

The trainees sat in the front four rows by squad. The cadre sat behind them, along with a considerable number of the support staff for all the training operations on Myotta. After all, ARC graduation was a great achievement, and it was considered a privilege to see those men who had passed the rigors of training receive their pauldron and kama, and in many cases, their assignment to a new unit.

Colonel Claw was the first to speak, and his remarks were brief. He announced that this class had had the fewest washouts, shown the greatest initiative and original thinking – both to the positive and the negative. He thanked his cadre and the supporting staff. He thanked, in absentia, those commanders who had seen fit to send their very best to ARC training. And he congratulated the trainees themselves on their hard work and perseverance.

Commander Steed and Major Tides joined him on the stage. Taking over the podium was Captain Dart, whose job it was to announce each trainee and his assignment.

"Finishing at the top of the class. Honor graduate. Commander Cody."

Not surprisingly, the hall rang out with applause, cheers, and shrill whistles.

Cody walked up the steps and stood facing the audience as Steed and Tides affixed the pauldron over his shoulders and handed him his kama. Cody smiled graciously, knowing that the moment he left here, he would never wear the accoutrement. It was neither his personality nor his style to wear the bulky trappings of an ARC trooper, despite their awe-inspiring appearance. The achievement itself was enough. He did not need any outward expression of it. And besides, the stuff was heavy and awkward. He much preferred the simple maneuverability afforded by plain armor. He shook hands with Colonel Claw and was then told to remain onstage to congratulate his fellow graduates.

Each trainee came up individually. There was no particular order except squad order, with Alpha Squad leading the way. Alpha was Stone's Squad, and it was announced that _now-Captain_ Stone would be returning to the Coruscant Guard as a mission commander.

Rex could not have been happier for him, for he'd known that this was precisely what Stone had wanted; and well-deserved, it was.

It also came as no surprise that Commander Wolffe would be headed back to his billet with General Plo Koon, for there was no chance the Jedi would have even considered allowing him to be reassigned.

Gree was staying with Master Luminara Unduli. Indeed, it had been General Unduli who had insisted her lieutenant attend ARC training in anticipation of moving him into positions of greater authority within her own unit.

Most assignments were met with expectation or pleasant agreement.

There were, however, a few surprises; one of which was Bly.

The lieutenant was promoted and reassigned to Jedi General Aayla Secura's 327th Star Corps. This announcement garnered a not-so-subtle murmur of collective envy from the gathered men, most of whom had sound knowledge of the beautiful and exotic, not-to-mention scantily clad, Jedi.

Then there was CT-2025, Rex's squad mate and a man he'd come to respect and admire for his calm demeanor and sense of brotherhood. In many ways, CT-2025 reminded Rex of Cody, and that was the best compliment Rex could think of.

CT-2025 would be joining the cadre. Colonel Claw himself took the moment to give him the name Colt, and Rex led a standing ovation.

Of course, at that point in the proceedings, Rex had been contentedly observing and evaluating, trying to estimate whether this assignment was good for this one, that assignment bad for that one, who seemed pleased and who seemed disappointed.

But when his own squad's assignments were finished being presented, he found himself still back in his seat, surrounded by his newly christened squad mates, and then the members of Falcon Squad were being called up onto the stage.

His squad mates looked at him and mumbled among themselves.

"Did they forget you?"

"They wouldn't make you sit in here if they'd failed you."

"They've got to be messing with you."

Rex remained aloof and said nothing, but internally he could not help but wonder if they _had_ failed him. For all his arrogant, cocky self-assuredness, this was payback. This was teaching him a lesson.

" _No, no, there's no way,"_ he refused. _"They just skipped over me by mistake. Everyone was so excited for Colt, they missed my name."_

When the last name was called out, and the last trainee crossed the stage, it was clear to everyone that the class's most visible trainee had been overlooked; and that would not stand. Over in Delta Squad, Gree was about to stand up and call attention to the oversight, but before he could do so, Colonel Claw resumed speaking, not from the podium but with his own un-aided booming voice.

"I don't normally do this, but we're going to break with protocol here for a minute," he announced, then turning to Cody, "The floor's all yours, Commander."

Cody nodded. "Thank you, Colonel Claw." He looked out over the gathering. "I asked the commandant if I could make this last presentation. I asked him because it was important _to me_. CT-7567?"

It might very well have been the first time Rex had ever blushed. As he walked up, he could feel all eyes on him, and he felt a sort of electric tension in the crowd, as if they all knew what was coming. Everyone knew but him! But even he had an idea . . . could it be possible, just possible that Cody had managed to swing an assignment to bring Rex to the 212th? Would they get to serve side-by-side? It seemed too much to hope for.

He stood beside Cody and looked out over the assembly – not at them, but above them, at some indistinct point on the far wall, anything not to make eye contact and give away what he was feeling, what he was hoping.

"I'm not one to drag things out, so, I'd like to congratulate _Captain_ Rex, the new first-in-command of the 501st Legion."

Rex was dumbfounded. He could scarcely comprehend the words.

This wasn't about the 212th. This wasn't about serving with Cody. This—this wasn't even about being a _member_ of the 501st. Cody had said—had said . . . _first-in-command_.

First-in-command. _First-in-command_.

Fek and all, first-in-command!

It wasn't possible. It couldn't be! The 501st had an officer, Captain St—St—damn, what was the man's name? Stamp! Yes, Stamp!

Rex was barely aware of Cody's placement of the pauldron on one side while . . . Colt? Yes, it was Colt who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere to affix the other side.

"You okay?" Cody asked quietly.

Rex only nodded.

"Then shake my hand."

Only then did Rex realize that Cody was standing there with his palm outstretched. He raised his eyes to those of his roommate and held out his hand mechanically.

"Is this true?" he whispered.

"It's true," Cody replied.

Rex turned slowly to Colt. He could hear applause and cheers, but they sounded far away and filtered. "You knew about this?"

"The commander only told me this morning."

Back to Cody. "When did you find out?"

"We'll talk about it afterwards," Cody said. "I think the commandant is waiting to congratulate you."

For indeed, congratulations were in order.

* * *

"You knew about this all along?" Rex pressed Cody.

"I should say so," Cody replied. "It was my idea."

"Your idea?!"

He and Rex were on their way back to their room after the graduation had concluded. With one night left at the compound before the shuttles would ferry the trainees across the scattered reaches of the galaxy, there were all manner of celebratory functions in the making. But at this moment, a gaggle of thirty or so clones were all headed back to the dormitories before partaking in the night's festivities.

"Yes, I suggested you to General Kenobi," Cody explained.

"But I thought General Skywalker already had a first-in-command," Rex stated. "You said Captain Stamp was there and that he was a perfect fit. Why would General Skywalker need a new—oh no, no . . . did something happen?"

"Yes, but it's not what you think," Cody replied. "Captain Stamp _was_ perfect. So perfect that Sector Headquarters decided they wanted him up at their level. That left an opening for a new first-in-command. General Kenobi thought ARC training would be the ideal place to find a replacement, and General Skywalker agreed, although I guess he wasn't too happy about losing his captain to Sector HQ. Anyway, that's why General Kenobi stopped by here on his way to Coruscant. He came to see if I had any recommendations. And I had only one."

Rex narrowed his eyes. "But—General Kenobi was here after the TACAN Snatch. You were so angry at me then."

"Yes, I was," Cody conceded. "But that didn't blind me from seeing what you were made of."

"But . . . why didn't you tell me?"

Cody was honest. "Because it wasn't a sure thing. There was no telling what you might do in the last few weeks of training."

"Huh, you mean, even after the TACAN exercise, you were afraid I'd do something even more crazy?"

"Or show the kind of man you really are, which is what you did in E&E."

"That wasn't exactly my finest hour, Cody," Rex said with a shake of his head.

Cody clapped him on the shoulder. "You still have a lot to learn." He gave a whistling chuckle. "But I can say this: if ever a clone were tailor-made for General Skywalker, it's you. I'm just hoping you're both not too much alike. Just be forewarned: you're going to have to prove yourself to him. He thought very highly of Captain Stone."

His words wound their way deep into Rex's thoughts. Yes, it could be true that he still had a lot to learn. He had always believed that experience was the best teacher, and the war itself wasn't even a year old yet. What lay beyond the horizon? And what would it mean to serve under General Skywalker, a man whose reputation for daring and fearlessness preceded him? If experience outranked everything, then how would Rex's experiences thus far stand up against the past experiences of the 501st?

"What's wrong? Don't tell me you're getting nervous?"

"Yes, of course, I'm nervous," Rex admitted. "This is General Skywalker, so I have to be the best."

"You are the best, Rex," Cody stated.

Rex managed a grin. "Second best."

The commander's response surprised him. "No, _the_ best." He stopped walking and waited for the others to go past. "I mean that, and I'm not embarrassed to admit it. It took me a while to realize it, the difference between a great leader and the best leader. All those things I faulted you for in the beginning are the very things that make men want to follow you. You have a single-minded focus: victory. And that's what's important in a war."

They began walking again.

At length, Rex spoke with gravity. "Not all victories are on the battlefield. I learned that from you."

* * *

"The whole idea of you serving under General Secura is just . . . there's no justice in the universe," Gree complained with a playful elbow to Bly's ribs.

They were among several dozen attendees at one of the celebrations that evening.

"Say what you want, but I hear she's all business," Captain Stone put forth.

"She may be, but she's still damned nice to look at," Gree persisted.

"You're one to complain." This from Stone again. "General Unduli isn't exactly a gundark."

Here, CT-390 interjected. "None of you have any reason to complain. It's not like you're getting assigned to the 89th."

His listeners assumed expressions of contrition – some genuine, others mock.

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that, Smoke," Colt said with a wry grin. "Jedi General Piell is, uh . . . well, we all know his reputation."

Rex spoke up. "Who's General Piell?" He and Cody had made the rounds to several gatherings and had now been at this one for the past hour or so.

It was Cody who answered. "Jedi Master Even Piell. He's commanding general of the 89th Intelligence Group. He's a Lannik, and . . . not the most pleasant of people."

"I've never heard of him," Rex said.

"Be glad," Gree quipped.

"That bad?"

Stone answered with some authority. "I've escorted him several times when he's come to the Senate on business. The best my sense of diplomacy will allow is to say that he's a Weequay's ass."

Bly grinned. "I'd hate to hear the worst your diplomacy would allow."

The conversation went on for another thirty minutes, covering a range of subjects.

At length, Rex nudged Cody. "Let's go. There's something I want to do before we leave tomorrow."

"What's that?"

"Repay a debt."

They excused themselves from the revelers, and Cody followed Rex outside into the night where the last of the three moons was already halfway through its run. As soon as Rex left the paved walkways for the dirt paths that led into the woods, Cody knew where they were going.

They scaled the wall just as they had three weeks earlier and began the trek up the mountainside. Two hours later, they were on top, overlooking the dark landscape below.

There were few things about which Rex was self-conscious, and expressions of gratitude were not among them. "This is what I wanted to thank you for," he said.

Cody glanced at him sideways. "This is the debt you wanted to repay?"

"Yeah," Rex replied. "Because coming up here changed everything. This was when we went from being roommates to being brothers."

Cody grinned. "I thought you had always considered every clone your brother."

"I do," Rex admitted. "But . . . some are brothers in a . . . closer sense. Don't ask me to explain it. That involves too much thinking."

The commander chuckled, then his voice grew fond with recollection. "You know, I realized something, too, when we came here the first time." A pause. "That's when I knew you weren't going to be just another officer. I'd brought you up here to show you the heights, and your first reaction was to envy the hawk, to want to go higher, to be where he was." He seemed to choose his words very carefully. "And I believe that the only person who . . . who's worthy of trying to get you there is General Skywalker."

"Are you trying to make me more nervous?" Rex asked with a hint of humor.

"Just saying what I think," Cody replied.

After a long silence, Rex said, "I'll make sure General Skywalker is happy with your recommendation."

Cody nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder. "See that you do. My reputation is riding on it."

"Say, Commander," Rex probed cautiously. "Now that I'm going to be first-in-command, do you think it's possible for me to go . . . troop shopping?"

"Troop shopping?"

"There are some men I'd like to bring with me to the 501st," Rex explained.

"I think it's a good idea if you get a feel for the ropes first," Cody replied. "You'd better make sure your first priority is to General Skywalker. Then you can worry about filling the ranks with your own hand-picked men."

Rex nodded. "Good advice. There's still a few months before they finish their training anyway."

"Who?"

"Some of the cadets Wolffe and I led on the survival exercise. They were impressive, the kind of soldiers any commander would want."

"Get yourself settled in first."

And despite Rex's impatience, he recognized it as sound counsel. Especially since the cadets were not even available yet.

However, there was someone who was . . .

* * *

"You're just appointed first-in-command, and already you're trying to steal my best troops." Colonel Claw regarded Rex with a somewhat sad smile. It was the following morning, and Rex and Cody's shuttle was not scheduled to leave until the afternoon. Rex had come, without an appointment, to see the commandant. "But because they are two of my best, I would never hold them back from going to a unit like the 501st."

"Only if they want to go," Rex noted.

"Well, let's find out." He lifted his wrist comm. "Orderly, send for Sergeant Denal and CT-611."

Rex chuckled to himself. _"To me, they were always First and Second Escort."_


	78. Chapter 77 Part III

**_Dear Reader, first thank you to my reviewers Ms CT-782, the Unnamed Guest, Freedom Phantom, Rohirrim Girl, Daniella, LLTC, and Christina TM. I truly appreciate your comments. Keeps me motivated! Now, I know everyone likes the torture chapters! LOL! Well, no torture here, but this is a long chapter that sort of launches the third part of the story. It summarizes the action on Kamino and proceeds on the understanding that most readers are familiar with the "ARC Trooper" episode. If not, you may want to watch it before you read this. From here on in, most chapters will be about Rex and Anakin or Rex and his troops, based on various episodes in the series that I want to highlight. But there will also be a lot of original material interspersed, including the happenings at the Monastica (as that comes into play in later chapters). Please understand that I want to work fairly quickly towards the climactic event, so there will be a lot of "time passes" synopses. And to the Unnamed Guest, you will get to see Rex's first meeting with Anakin (one of my favorite scenes) as a flashback in a later chapter. :-) Again, thanks to all for reading! Part III begins. Peace, CS_**

Chapter 77 Defending Home

" _I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,  
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love;  
The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,  
That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best;  
The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,  
The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice."_

I Vow to Thee, My Country  
Sir Cecil Spring Rice

* * *

"We're getting pushed back. I'm down to a single platoon. We need reinforcements."

Rex was used to hearing the urgent voices of battle. He was used to hearing fear, anger, desperation. Far less frequent were the voices of calm, of collectedness, of forced reserve under pressure.

Yet, he was not surprised to hear the latter coming from Commander Colt through his helmet comm. He had noticed in the lead-up to and preparations for this battle that his former ARC training squad mate had not changed in that respect. The consummate professional—poised, unflappable, in complete control of his emotions.

"Colt, it's Rex! Where are you?"

"We're holding a line in Passage 4, juncture 4E."

"I'm sending help," Rex stated, then he switched to his battalion's internal frequency. "Jesse, Denal. Each of you take your companies and go reinforce Commander Colt in Passage 4, juncture 4E. Make it fast. He's down to a single platoon."

The two men sent their acknowledgments.

Rex went back to the open frequency. "Colt, I've got two companies on the way. Hold on."

"Roger." And for what might have been the first time ever for Colt, the commander broke with radio protocol. "Thanks, Rex."

Rex turned to Cody. The two of them were in the command center, following the flow of battle with General Shaak Ti, the commanding general of Tipoca City; and already, it had been a peculiar attack. The general had noticed right away that the Separatist fleet was not as large as expected, only to discover that the reason for the anomaly was lying beneath the very waters surrounding them. What had appeared to be falling debris from ships destroyed in the space battle were, in fact, various parts of Trident assault craft. It hadn't been until General Kenobi had gone on an underwater reconnaissance that the deception had been discovered. But by then, it had been too late. The Tridents were already assembled and had started their attack. With their rotation drills, they had penetrated dozens of the pods and hangars, depositing thousands of droids.

General Kenobi had called for General Skywalker to return to the city, Skywalker having gone to support the air battle. Now that it had become clear that the true fight was planetside and not in space, Anakin was on his way back.

"General Shaak Ti! There's a report that General Grievous has landed on platform 7 Kilo," came a report from one of the clones busily monitoring communications. "He appears to be heading for the barracks."

"The barracks have all been evacuated," Shaak Ti stated. "The cadets are all in the lock-downs. We need to protect those lock-downs at all costs."

"We're going to need to scrape up some more manpower," Rex stated. "We need to put a blaster in the hand of every clone old enough to hold a weapon."

"We should send some men to each lock down to take charge and prepare the cadets for a fight in the event Grievous and his forces get through," Cody suggested.

"I agree," General Shaak Ti nodded. "Do it." She then turned her attention to the e-plexi plotting grid where members of her clone trooper staff were inputting battle movement.

Rex turned to Cody. "My battalion is spread out all over the place. I've got two companies in hangar 8, three companies protecting the growth towers, I just sent two to reinforce Colt, and there are still two on Delta platform. Havoc commandeered Fives and Echo as snipers. I sent Top on that recon to make sure the evacuation cells are still intact—"

"Rex, old boy, no time for a rundown on where every member of our units are," Cody interrupted politely. "We just need to find enough men to send them to the lock-downs. And then I think it'd be a good thing for us to get out there and take a look for ourselves how things are going."

"Right, right," Rex agreed. He opened the internal battalion frequency again. "Company commanders, report. I need a dozen men to meet me at Turbo shaft 5d, level 18."

Likewise, Cody sent out the word to his own 212th men.

Despite most of the companies being pinned down or fully engaged in combat, they were able to dispatch the requested number of men.

Upon their arrival at the meeting point, they were quickly briefed on the mission and sent on their ways.

"Great. Now that's done, let's go make a sweep of the barracks," Cody decided.

As they made their way through the empty corridors, the sounds of battle echoing from above and around them, Rex spoke his thoughts out loud. "Hardcase reported at least ten growth towers have been destroyed. That's thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of brothers."

"I know," Cody replied in a voice that belied his concern yet was a perfect example of how he managed his own feelings as the moment demanded. "If they breach the lock-downs, it could be hundreds of thousands more."

"Yeah, well, that's not going to happen," Rex said boldly. "We're going to beat them back. This is one Army that won't be defeated."

Cody gave a curt nod as he was once again reminded of why he held Rex in such high esteem.

Rules be damned. Victory was the goal.

"Captain Rex, this is Jesse."

"Rex here."

"Captain, we're running into a lot of resistance trying to get to Commander Colt's location. I'm not sure we're going to be able to get through."

"Keep trying," Rex ordered, fearing that it might already be too late.

Another voice broke in.

"Rex? Where are you?"

It was General Skywalker over the 501st closed channel.

"I'm still in Tipoca City, General—"

"I know that," Skywalker cut him off. "Where?"

"Level 5, enroute to the barracks. Commander Cody is with me. We're making a final sweep to see that everyone got to the lock downs."

"Good. I'm headed to protect the DNA chamber. As soon as you're done with your sweep, meet me there," Anakin commanded. "And keep an eye out: Grievous is here."

"Yes, General." Rex relayed the orders to Cody.

In a perfectly understandable way, Rex was always relieved and inspired whenever his general joined the ground battles that were Rex's specialty. General Skywalker, being one of the best—if not _the_ best—pilot in the GAR, was often assigned to lead flying missions. Or more to the point, he chose to lead flying missions. It was not lost on Rex that his general would not have volunteered for so many fighter sorties if he had not had full and complete trust in Rex as his first-in-command. In many ways, it was a sign of great respect that General Skywalker had no qualms about letting Rex run the show on the many occasions of his own air- or spaceborne missions. Rex took it as a point of pride.

Yet, there was no denying that one of the most encouraging things Rex could ever hear on a battlefield was the voice of his general at his side. Or even his remote voice announcing over the comm that he had joined the battle. Rex had realized very early on that there was one Jedi who, in his estimation, stood branches above the others. No Jedi—not even General Kenobi, not even Master Yoda—could compare with General Skywalker, so deep and fast was Rex's devotion to him. And as far as Rex was concerned, it was a devotion well-earned.

"If they pulled General Skywalker out of the space battle, things must be looking grim down here," Cody remarked. "We'd better get a move—"

He cut off abruptly as a blaster bolt struck the wall beside him. Dropping into a one-shouldered roll, he came up behind the blast door bulkhead on the near side of the corridor while Rex took cover behind the far bulkhead.

"Right, well, I guess that's our cue to get out of here," Rex quipped. He jammed an elbow into the panel controlling the doors and as they began to slowly close, he squeezed off a few shots through the shrinking aperture. Just before turning to flee down the hall, he saw a fearsome image turn the corner at the end of the corridor on the other side of the blast doors.

 _General Grievous!_

"We've got trouble," the captain announced. "It's Grievous."

"Well then, let's not wait around for him to cut through those doors," Cody said. "We need to get to the barracks!"

Before they had even reached the t-intersection at the end of the hallway, they could hear the unmistakable sound of a light saber cutting through metal.

They increased their speed, coming after a short jaunt, to the lift tube; but it took only one look to see that the lift was not working. The clear tube was blackened on the inside, as if a flash-fire had burst down the length of it. Even the floor and walls outside the chute opening were charred and melted.

"So much for that idea," Cody said in a sort of deadpan that Rex recognized as the commander's sense of gallows humor. "Looks like we're taking the access tunnel."

A second later they were descending the ladder in the narrow tunnel. The barracks were still twelve floors below them. As they reached the bottom, they heard the sound of the upper hatch through which they had just come opening. General Grievous's raspy voice reverberated down the tunnel.

"Ah, it looks like we are headed for the same place! Let's see who gets there first!"

Cody looked back inside the tunnel, craning his head upward to see Grievous draw in his spindly legs like a spider and start scrambling down the tunnel at an alarming rate. The commander backed out and started to pull the latch closed.

"Hold it, Commander," Rex said. "I've got a better idea. That lift shaft gave me an idea." He spun on his heel and went to one a series of panels running along the base of the wall. He pulled a panel open to reveal a series of hoses and conduits. One, marked with red warning icons, was what Rex was looking for. He began pulling more panels until he came upon a box into which the red hose fed. The box was also marked with a hazard icon.

Cody immediately knew what he was planning. "Glycanol? Are you insane?" Glycanol was one of the coolants used to maintain the climate in Tipoca City. In its light fluid form, it not dangerous unless it came into contact with a combustion source. The problem was that even the smallest electromagnetic ping was enough to ignite it. The purpose of the boxes along the length of the conduits through which it ran was to de-activate the molecularization caused by the friction of running through the hose.

"It'll stop him longer than just closing the hatch," Rex replied.

"And possibly blow us to smithereens at the same time," the commander pointed out.

"Dramatic, again," Rex chastised. "We'll put some distance between us before I ignite it. General Skywalker and I do this sort of thing all the time—"

"That's supposed to be make me feel better?" Cody humphed, but at the same time, he knelt down beside Rex and helped him start loosening the box. "If you take this box out, we could end up sending this whole place sky high. We'd be doing the Separatists job for them."

"I only need a few drops and then we'll put the box back," Rex assured him.

"Just don't make any sparks unscrewing the thing . . . fek and all, Rex, this is crazy," Cody said, but he didn't stop what he was doing. He closed the hose valve on his end. "What are you going to put the drops in?"

"Nothing," Rex replied. He slid the box out of the wall and took six very fast steps to the tunnel door. "Just going to pour it straight onto the floor."

Cody almost protested again, but what good would it do? They had both already committed to this course of action. And Rex _appeared_ to know what he was doing . . .

Rex tipped the box sideways and waited until a handful of drops had fallen onto the floor in the tunnel. Then he quickly returned to Cody. "Get it in there fast," he said, fumbling with his own end. "Grievous is already halfway down the thing. Hurry!"

They got the box in much quicker than they'd gotten it out, reopened the valves, and took off down the hallway. At a hundred meters away, there was a storage room. Rex opened the door. "Get inside."

He turned and lowered his targeting site. Without a word, he fired one shot, just as Cody ducked into the room. Rex barely managed to get out of the firestorm as it tore down the hallway – and up the tunnel; and in fact, it was Cody whose quick actions had actually pulled him back just in time.

The commander kicked the door's control panel with his foot and the two men backed up against the far wall.

The sound outside the door was like a roaring, angry wind. They could see tongues of fire licking their way around the edges of the door. The door itself was beginning to glow and warp. The air was vibrating, alive with electricity and superheated particles. Even with the protection afforded by the armor, it was getting dangerously hot and difficult to breath.

And then it was over.

The rushing wind ceased. The fire withdrew. The heat abated.

Cody drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Rex was apparently unmoved by how close they had come to being turned into ashes. "With any luck, that left him a little crispy."

Cody turned his head, and even with the visors between them, Rex knew exactly the expression that Cody was wearing under his helmet. It was that Cody-esque blend of disbelief and reluctant admiration. Rex knew it well. He'd seen it many times, and now he could discern it by just the tilt of the commander's head.

"I just hope we can get out of here," Cody said at last. "That explosion may have fused the door closed."

And, in fact, it had.

But again, Rex had a solution.

"We can go through the ductwork."

Cody was tempted to give into a bit of sarcasm and note that Rex always had an answer for everything. Except that it was the truth. Rex was always full of ideas, always thinking three, four, five steps ahead. The one and only time Cody had seen Rex at a loss had been in ARC training upon the conclusion of the torturous E&E exercise. And that once had been enough. Cody did not want to see or hear such uncertainty from Rex ever again. Rex was the strongman, the rock to which his soldiers looked to find their example.

That was the way it was and the way it should be.

And in some peculiar way, it made Cody proud.

"Lead the way."

* * *

The first block of barracks was empty. A good sign. That meant everyone had made it to the lock-downs.

Of course, the barracks were massive, and it would take two clones more than just a few minutes to check all of them.

"We should have brought more men," Rex stated.

"There were none to spare," Cody reminded him.

Rex grunted some manner of acknowledgment.

They continued their sweep in the eerie, red-lit silence. The barracks were usually a bustling place, and so the lack of activity was surreal and even somewhat disconcerting.

Suddenly, Cody reached out and put a hand on Rex's arm. "Stop. Do you hear that?"

Rex listened. He heard nothing, but a shadow of movement caught his eye. "Someone just went into that last block."

As they got closer, they could distinguish low voices.

"A Separatist victory means death . . . for all of us. The cadet is right. What are we going to do?"

"That sounds like 99," Cody whispered.

Rex was already rounding the corner. "We fight," he answered, removing his helmet, taking in the unlikely gaggle before him.

The voice had indeed belonged to 99; but with him were Echo and Fives. There was also a handful of cadets who looked to be about ten chronological years old. And while the youngsters did not appear frightened, the look of uncertainty was clear. They needed leadership, and Rex was only vaguely miffed at the fact that neither of the two newest members of the 501st seemed to have been providing it. And besides, hadn't they been loaned out to Commander Havoc as snipers? What were they doing here?

One of the cadets spoke out. "But our training's not finished."

Fives stepped forward and entreated enthusiastically, "Look around! We're one in the same. Same heart, same blood. Your training's in your blood. And my blood's boiling for a fight."

This was the sort of initiative Rex had come to associate with Echo, and he was pleased to see it on display, so long as the trooper did not overstep his boundaries as he had on Pylotta.

Echo, the more circumspect of the two, added, "This is our home. This is our war."

"What about weapons?" the cadet persisted.

Here, Ninety-Nine spoke out. "The armory. It's just a few corridors away, here in the barracks. I can retrieve all the firepower that we need." The gnarled maintenance clone gave a crooked smile. "So, who wants to blast some droids?"

Rex gave an approving nod.

"Have you seen any other cadets still in the barracks?" Cody asked.

"No, Sir," Echo replied. "It looks like they all made it to the lock-downs."

"Then that's where we should head, as well, after we hit the armory," the commander stated. "Those lock-downs may be our last stand."

"I don't think we can get to any of the lock-downs, Sir," Fives said. "As we were coming here, there was some kind of gas filling the access corridor. It seemed like there was a disruption in the coolant conduit. It smelled like Glycanol vapor. It's too risky to go that way: any friction and the whole corridor could go up in flames."

Cody and Rex exchanged silent glances that spoke volumes between the two of them. No wondering at the cause of the vapor.

"Then we'll have to hold the line here," Cody decided.

"There are droids on their way here, though," another cadet fretted. "We saw them."

"That's right, and General Grievous among them," Rex announced. "So, let's stop talking and start preparing. Echo, Fives, put together a plan to defend this run. The commander and I are going to check out the armory."

* * *

Anakin could sense her presence before even entering the DNA chamber.

Asaaj Ventress had an easily identifiable presence in the Force – a presence defined by a cool malice, a stark indifference to the value of life, an implacable thirst for an undefined vengeance. All of which, in Anakin's estimation, made her less of an opponent. The anger and amorphous disdain she had for everyone and everything clouded her judgment and tainted her ability to use the Force to its greatest potential.

Therefore, Anakin never feared a confrontation with her. She could present him with a good fight, but she would never be able to defeat him. The dark side of the Force in which she cloaked herself was no match for the light side. The great power wielded by the Sith was only so in their own minds, for even Count Dooku had met his match, if not in Anakin and Obiwan, then in Yoda.

Anakin firmly believed that there was nothing of use, nothing so alluring in the dark side as to tempt him; and he was certain nothing would change that belief.

" _No droids in the hallway,"_ he thought. _"She's here alone."_

At least that part, he understood. He often preferred to handle his assignments solo, as well. Having a padawan had made that difficult, but he had come to accept Ahsoka—more than accept, he had come to appreciate the opportunity to train and mold her into a Jedi. True, she got on his nerves more often than not, but she tended to deliver on her missions. She was a companion Anakin could tolerate and even enjoy, though her company was not quite on the same level as Obiwan's.

Obiwan was one of two people Anakin liked to have at his side on a mission. Yes, his master might be a bit overly cautious, overly bound by rules and protocol, and too willing to believe the best of people; but he always kept his head, evaluated a situation from all angles, and in a fight, he was brilliant. But Obiwan also had a tendency to overrule him, to discard some of his more creative ideas out of hand, to direct caution where bravery was needed. There were times when Anakin just wanted someone to agree with him, to help flesh out his own wild ideas, to have the boldness to take the risks others weren't willing to take.

And that someone was Rex.

As far as Anakin was concerned, Rex had no equal in the Grand Army. As a first-in-command, as a leader, as a follower . . . Rex was the ideal match. Anakin could not have asked for a better officer. Rex was bold, fearless, and insanely gifted when it came to thinking up new ways to outsmart the enemy. The men of the 501st viewed him with something approaching adulation. They would all give their lives for him, and Anakin had come to depend on him just as much as he had ever depended on Obiwan - or anyone else, for that matter.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that, through Rex, Anakin felt himself to be a part of the brotherhood that defined the clones. These men were more than troopers. They were individuals with names, widely varying personalities, and in the Force, each one of them was unique. Anakin did not see them as clones, and he did not see Rex as just any other officer.

He might deny publicly that what he felt towards his troopers was an attachment; but in the privacy of his own thoughts, he knew exactly what it was, especially where Rex was concerned. Yet, he felt that he was disciplined enough to handle any attachments he might form. He wasn't like other Jedi who feared their emotions and therefore kept them at arm's length. No, he embraced his emotions – both the positive and the negative. And with regard to Rex, it was all positive and had been almost from the beginning. Almost. But that was a recollection for another time.

Right now, Anakin was wondering how long it would be before his captain joined him. He raised his wrist comm. "Rex, what's your status?"

"I'm still in the barracks, General," came the reply. "We're going to try and hold off Grievous from getting to the lock-downs."

"Grievous is _down there_?"

"He was right behind us, Sir. We created an obstacle, and I don't know if he made it through."

"What kind of obstacle?"

"We set off a Glycanol explosion—"

"What?"

"A Glycanol explosion, Sir—"

"Did it work?"

"I'm not sure, Sir. If nothing else, it slowed him down, but I don't know if he's still alive," Rex replied.

"Is Cody still with you? I don't want you going up against him on your own," Anakin warned.

"Commander Cody is here. And Echo and Fives," came the reply. "We'll be alright, Sir." Then in true Rex style, he asked, "What about you, General? Do you still need me to come up there?"

Anakin could not help but smile to himself. Such brazen ego might be an annoyance to many commanders, especially Jedi commanders; but to Anakin, Rex's bravado was music to his ears. It seemed that the greater the odds, the more Rex rose to the occasion.

"You keep doing what you're doing," Anakin replied. "I think I can handle it."

"Copy that, Sir. Rex, out."

Anakin waved his hand past the door sensor, and it slid open.

Standing there at the DNA retrieval console with her back to him was Ventress.

Without turning to face him, she spoke in her dulcet, cloying voice. "I was beginning to think my presence went unnoticed."

"You weren't planning on leaving without saying hello, were you?" Anakin replied.

Ventress turned towards him and drew her double red sabers. The battle was on.

* * *

"Here it is! Everything we need is here," Ninety-Nine announced as he entered the armory with Rex and Cody.

"Excellent work, Ninety-Nine," Rex commended.

Grenades, droid poppers, blaster clips, all manner of rifles and hand guns . . . it was all there for the taking. They picked out blasters for the cadets, along with extra charger clips, and two backpacks filled with grenades, being that grenades usually ended in a more final result than droid poppers. A magnetically-stunned droid would reset itself within fifteen minutes and be back on the battlefield. A droid that was blasted to pieces . . . tended to stay that way.

Ten minutes later, their plan was set. Everyone was armed and in place. All that remained now was for Grievous and his droids to arrive, provided they had survived the explosion in the shaft.

"Listen," Echo said quietly. "I can hear movement in the hallway. They're coming."

"Remember the plan," Cody said calmly. "We need to lure them back into the sleeping towers."

There was one cadet with them, and Cody put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "As soon as we started firing, run back to the others and let them know we're coming. Remember: close every blast door behind you and lock them with the codes we set."

"Yes, Commander."

"We're counting on you."

"I won't let you down."

They took their positions behind the locked door that stood between them and the corridor. Less than thirty seconds later, there came a metallic wrap on the door and the tinny voice of a battle droid. "Open up."

The voice that followed was more sinister.

"Get those doors open and scare the remaining clones out of hiding."

General Grievous.

Rex grit his teeth. "We only delayed him a few minutes."

"Those were minutes we needed," Cody stated. "Let's show we made good use of them."

A blaster bolt took out the lock and the door slid open.

Onto a front of four clones.

The first line of droids went down, only to be replaced by second and third lines, but this had been expected. Now, as the droids advanced, Rex's party fell back, prompting the droids to follow.

"All too easy," Grievous said with both disdain and satisfaction.

"Define easy, General."

Grievous recognized the voice without having to see the speaker. "Kenobi," he sneered, turning to face him.

The two drew their light sabers, and yet another battle was joined.

* * *

If Echo had contemplated the fact that only days ago, he'd been wandering the pathways of a desert oasis, pondering the beauty and wonder of creation, he might have been struck with the incongruity of that scene in comparison with the situation in which he now found himself.

This battle was not just for his own life, but for the lives of millions of his brothers. In as much as the clones were viewed as the engine that drove the war machine, since meeting Rex, Echo had come to see his brothers as much more than brilliant duplicates of a magnificent original. Their DNA may contain everything needed to be the physical images of Jango Fett; but their minds, their personalities, their passions and aversions were as dissimilar as would be found among any population of non-clones.

They had value in and of themselves. Individual value that went beyond their roles as tools in an epic war. They might have been created to function solely as soldiers, and the call to arms might be a noble one; but not every clone was old enough or fit enough to fight. They were the ones who needed protection. And so, Echo did not see himself as fighting to protect the ability to create more clones; he was protecting those brothers already created and as yet unable to take up arms.

It did not occur to him that there were others fighting on his side who might have different reasons for taking up the defense of Kamino – namely, its production capacity.

No, that thought was not the sort of thing to enter Echo's mind, but it certainly occurred to Fives, although not in a negative sense. Fives saw nothing ignoble or distasteful in the preservation of the cloning facilities. In an enigmatic way, Fives was of the mind that his fellow clones were something very close to the pinnacle of creation. Millions of men churned out with only a miniscule fraction of them showing any kind of physical or mental flaw. Even the flawed—such as Ninety-Nine—were superior in so many ways to the naturally occurring populations throughout the galaxy.

As far as Fives was concerned, the Jedi had done a great thing in ordering the creation of the clone army. The only drawback, he often lamented, was that the bonds of brotherhood often stood too strong. The loss of his squad mates had not caught him by surprise, given a clone's life expectancy; but what did throw him off balance was his reaction to the loss. His perfectly balanced mind and perfectly honed reason had told him such losses were inevitable and that the rhythm of battle permitted no time for grieving – and, in fact, the clones had been engineered not to feel any sense of grief. That was supposed to be part of their template, part of their conditioning – the same sort of icy coldness that ran through Jango Fett's veins.

But then, the Kaminoans, being their own sort of frozen souls, had not noticed the one glint of humanity in Fett, the small opening through which they might have seen the man's deepest desire. Fett's request for one unaltered clone had struck them as odd, a peculiarity. The idea that Fett might raise such a clone as his son . . . why, it was beyond the Kaminoans' ability to grasp.

And because they had missed that jot of sentiment in the original, they had missed it in the creation of a template for millions of clone troopers. Instead of creating an army of simply bold and lethal combatants, they now had an army of bold, lethal combatants who also felt the range of human emotions and very often made those emotions clear to others, despite conditioning to the contrary.

A tumble of those emotions was going through Echo's mind as he raced along behind Fives towards the sleeping towers. Behind him were Commander Cody and Captain Rex—which struck him as odd, given his captain's usual penchant for being first—and this was the location of their last stand. If the droids got past them here, they would have an unobstructed route to the lock-downs . . . unless the Glycanol-infused air was detonated . . .

The droids had blown their way through the last of the blast doors and were hot on the clones' heels.

Echo and Fives scrambled behind a cluster of Brimbar storage crates, set in place earlier by the cadets and Ninety-Nine as part of their defensive plan. Cody and Rex took up positions past them, also behind makeshift crate barriers.

The locker alcove adjacent to Rex's cover was not empty. Ninety-Nine was waiting there with the backpacks full of grenades. Without the need for communication, he tossed one to the captain, as Cody, Echo and Fives drew back to the next set of crates. Leaping out, Rex flung the grenade against the front set of crates, forcing the droids to move towards the opposite wall.

"A little closer," he whispered. "Just come a little more . . . Cadets! Now!"

The sleeping tubes above the walkway opened behind the advancing droids. The armed cadets began firing. At the same time, Echo and Fives rose from behind their cover and showed themselves as the marksmen they had become in their time since joining the 501st.

Yet, with every droid they dropped, it seemed there were two to takes its place. The good news was that General Grievous had not advanced with them. The clones had no idea what had happened to him, but nor were they devoting much energy to wondering about it. They just took it as a stroke of good fortune and continued fighting their battle.

"Is there no end to these damned things?" Fives cursed.

"Just keep firing," Echo replied.

Fifteen minutes later, their situation was turning grave. In the sleeping tubes, the cadets were each down to their last clip. Echo and Fives were still well-armed, but even they could not hold out indefinitely against an unending swarm of droids.

In the alcove, Ninety-Nine tossed the single remaining grenade to Rex.

Rex passed it to Cody. "Last one, Commander. Make it count."

"I'll get more," Ninety-Nine volunteered, heading down the corridor with his lopsided gait.

"Ninety-Nine, you can't!" Rex protested. It was not a rebuff of the bent, old clone's abilities, for Rex would never devalue his contributions. It was the fact that the corridor behind them, the part that led back towards the arms room, was wide-open to attack.

Ninety-Nine ignored Rex's plea. "I'm a soldier! Like you!"

A soldier who had never been given his chance, never had the opportunity to show himself on the battlefield.

Here, the battle had come to him. This was his chance to fight alongside his brothers, to fulfill the role for which he'd been created. Any risk was worth taking to serve beside them, for if they failed, if the Separatists succeeded in destroying the cloning facility on Kamino and the clones still growing up there, if all of his brothers were lost to him, he himself wanted his last wisp of breath to be one of brotherhood, of friendship. He wanted to die in service to the men he had seen grow up, complete their training, and head off to war while he stayed behind.

And it could have been that Rex understood this on some level. He could have given Ninety-Nine an order to come back and take cover. He could have gone after him himself, knowing that Ninety-Nine could be easily caught and dragged to safety.

Or he could allow a man to take a chance, to decide his own actions. A moment of heroism on the battlefield.

A moment that ended too soon.

A blaster bolt caught the old man in the back of the knee, but even this did not stop him. He picked himself up and managed to continue on. But the next shots were lethal. Ninety-Nine fell to the floor and did not get back up.

Echo turned just as Ninety-Nine went down. Fives had already moved out from behind his cover and was unleashing a vengeful barrage against the droids. Echo was tempted to run to Ninety-Nine, but he knew the scenario would not allow it. He might end up dying the same way. He returned his attention to the approaching droids and joined Fives in returning fire.

"Commander Cody." General Shaak Ti's voice came over Cody's wrist comm.

"Yes, Sir!"

"The droids have been pushed back to the main hangar."

"Copy that, General; but we've still got our hands full down here," Cody replied. Even as he spoke, he peered around the crates to assess the number of enemy still facing him. It was then that he noticed no more droids were rounding the far corner. The only droids remaining were the three dozen or so already in the corridor. "Wait! It looks like their numbers are decreasing."

"Do you need reinforcements?" Shaak Ti asked.

"No, General. I think we can finish this up ourselves." He looked to Rex who nodded.

"And we're going to make it quick," the captain added.

* * *

Up on the outer ring walk above one of the landing platforms, Sempe almost leaped out of his skin at the sight of the Trident smashing down onto the pad below. He'd seen the shoulder-launch missile come in, and he'd shouted a warning through his helmet comm, for there were dozens of men from the 501st on the pad. He now watched with baited breath, waiting for the smoke and debris to clear, hoping his battalion mates had managed to get out of the way. Instead, what he saw emerging from the chaos were two red flashing lines, followed in short order by a single blue line.

Light sabers!

"Look! It's the general!" Sempe shouted.

The troopers down on the platform had also seen Skywalker's arrival in pursuit of Ventress; and now they were converging to back up their commanding officer.

Anakin was furious with himself for having let Ventress get this far with the DNA capsule. He'd underestimated how much she had grown in her use of the Force. Yet, he was still comfortable in his belief that she was no match for him. Let her swing her double sabers; they were nothing against his single blade. Let her leap and somersault and twirl. His own brute force would overpower her finesse. He parried a series of undisciplined cuts before pushing her to the ground. He held out his hand, Force-retrieved the capsule from where it hung on her belt, and was about to savor the victory when she rose up against him with a wild, unhinged rage, using her own formidable physical strength to force him into a retreat. Now, it was his turn to go down, the capsule jarring loose from his hand and skittering across the platform.

Ventress reached out her hand.

The capsule flew through the air . . .

. . . straight into the intercepting hand of a clone.

March, to be precise. And quite to his own surprise. He'd just climbed over the arm of the destroyed Trident, his only intention being to offer assistance to his general, if needed – for when did General Skywalker ever need assistance? But he'd found himself in the right place at the right time. All he'd had to do was reach out his hand. Now, he held the future of the Grand Army in that hand, the basis for millions of lives already created and millions yet to come. And a crazy woman was eyeing him in such a way that he was sure he was about to have his guts torn out.

That is, until General Skywalker got to his feet and took up a protective stance. There was no way he was going to let Ventress anywhere near the capsule or the trooper holding it. More clones arrayed themselves near March.

Ventress was clearly outnumbered. "I suppose you expect me to surrender."

Anakin took a couple menacing steps forward. "Actually, I plan to let the clones execute you. Right now." It was not merely a threat of death. There was a more profound meaning to it, and every clone knew it. The general was not going to be the one to kill her; he would leave that to the men whose home Ventress had dared to attack. This was their vengeance to take.

Ventress smiled wickedly. "Not this time." She force-pushed them back, and in that instant, a spherical ship zipped across the platform behind her. It was Grievous's getaway ship, for he, too, had been defeated and forced to retreat. Assuming, though, that Ventress had obtained the DNA, he had not seen any reason to stick around for a continuance of his battle with General Kenobi. And it was not an assumption made without basis: Ventress had contacted him earlier, as she'd fled from Skywalker, to tell him she had the capsule and was headed for the platform, that he should meet her there.

Now, as they sped away towards the safety of their waiting fleet, Grievous did not dally. "Do you have the DNA assassin? Perhaps you should give it to me for safe-keeping."

Ventress wanted nothing more at that moment than to run her blade through what little organic material still comprised Grievous's being.

"I don't have it."

"You said you had it."

"I did," she said in steely voice. "I lost it while battling with Skywalker."

Grievous gave a laugh of expectant disdain. "I knew you would fail. Count Dooku will not be happy when he hears about your incompetence."

Now, it was Ventress's turn to smile. "Yes, and I'm sure that, as the mission commander, you will receive your own fair share of the blame."

Grievous was silent for a moment as he realized she had bested him on this one. The dark apprentice was right – the Count would be _disappointed_ with both of them. It might be better if they presented a united front.

"We could make sure the facts are . . . tilted in our direction," he suggested.

Ventress smirked at his back. He was such a fool, and she despised him for it. But more than that, she despised that circumstances at the moment were forcing them to collaborate.

"Yes, we could."

* * *

For Rex, stoicism was his natural reaction to tragedy. All clones were conditioned to view death at arm's length with the perspective of clinical observation. But given the history of his emotional exuberance in the earliest days of the war, Rex had worked hard to master himself and maintain an even temperament under all circumstances.

That was why the image of Echo cradling the dead Ninety-Nine in his arms fascinated and moved him. Echo, a man with no compunction about airing out his emotions for all to see, was able to do those things that Rex felt inside but could never show – not because it was unfitting, but because he feared it. He feared that the display of unbridled emotion could lead to other expositions that _would be_ unfitting.

"We lost a true soldier," Cody mourned.

Rex placed a hand on his shoulder. "He truly was one of us."

Rex's wrist comm buzzed. "Rex, report. Are you alright?"

"Yes, General," Rex replied. "The droids have been defeated down here." He did not mention the loss of Ninety-Nine. He felt certain that General Skywalker did not even know the name, much less the man. And that was okay. Ninety-Nine was part of life on Kamino, a brother who had really belonged only to his fellow clones, and gladly so.

"Make your way back up to platform A3," Anakin said. "We need to help out with the damage assessment and get a casualty report."

"Yes, Sir, on my way," Rex acknowledged, then to Echo and Fives, "You two wait here until the casualty teams come through. Keep an eye on the cadets, too."

"Yes, Captain," Fives answered.

Rex turned to Cody. "I'm headed back up. General Skywalker needs me. You coming?"

Cody nodded. "Yeah."

They left the barracks and began making their way back to the upper platforms, passing through corridors littered with dead droids and dead clones. There were no injured. Only dead. There were no markings on the clones' armor; and that sent a chill through Rex's bones for that meant that these were either Shinies or cadets, and they had fought to the last man.

"How many brothers do you think we lost today?" Rex asked in an almost wary voice.

"It's better not to think about it," Cody replied bluntly. "Instead, ask yourself why they called off their attack."

"Because we were taking them apart," Rex said with a bit of angry bravado.

"If they had truly wanted to destroy Tipoca City and the cloning facilities, they would have sent a lot more droids than they did," Cody posed. "They would have pressed their air attack instead of focusing on a ground assault. It may have been a tough battle, but it wasn't a battle they were trying to win."

"Now, that's ridiculous," Rex protested. "Why else would they come here?"

"General Skywalker was headed to the DNA chamber," Cody said. "He was trying to protect our DNA, our template's DNA."

"You think they came here to steal our DNA?"

"It would make sense," Cody opined. "If they have our DNA, they can engineer all kinds of biological weapons that would affect only us clones."

Rex was stunned by this idea. "You're right," he breathed, feeling suddenly confined and restricted. He took off his helmet, balancing it on his hip as he walked.

"So, they may have withdrawn from the fight because they got what they came for," Cody proposed.

Rex scowled. "General Skywalker wouldn't have let that happen."

They rounded a corner onto yet another grisly scene. It set Rex to wondering how many of his men had been lost up on the landing platforms. A number of them had been placed under the operational control of the ARC officers, so that made Rex feel a little better about not having been there himself to lead them. He had great faith in his company commanders, but he could not squelch the sense of dread as he contemplated what the dead and injured count might be.

As his gaze went from one dead trooper to the next, he felt something cold descending within him. It was the veil coming down, the forced detachment that prevented him from being overwhelmed by the staggering loss of life incurred in almost every battle.

"Rex."

He felt Cody's hand on his arm. The commander had stopped walking.

Rex glanced at him then followed his gaze down the corridor.

For a moment, it felt as if his heart has stopped beating.

"Colt . . . Colt!" He ran the intervening thirty meters, stopping abruptly short of the ARC trooper's body. He crouched down slowly, but he could already tell from the awkward positioning and half-closed, vacant eyes that his friend was dead. "Oh no . . . no," he moaned, doing his utmost to maintain his composure, for this was not a just death. Of all the men Rex had gone through ARC training with, Colt—CT-2025—had been the most honorable, Cody notwithstanding. He had shown himself repeatedly to be selfless and devoted to the brotherhood. His tenure as a member of the ARC cadre had been marked by distinction, resulting in his promotion and assignment as commander of the Rancor Battalion, one of the ARC program's operational training units.

He had been a good, decent man. A courageous man. A man who probably deserved to outlive them all. Death had come too soon.

And on the blade of a light saber. Rex could see the clean lines where the blade had entered and exited. At least, it appeared to have been a quick death, but that was little consolation. The veil that descended in Rex's heart began to fray. His emotions were pushing their way through . . .

"You okay?" Cody's hand on his shoulder accompanied the inquiry.

Rex shook his head. "Why Colt? He didn't deserve this."

Cody, knowing Rex as he did, gave a response that would go a good way towards healing. "It's what he would have wanted: dying in battle to defend his brothers and his home."

After a long silence, Rex spoke quietly. "He was better than me in so many ways. He was always that calm voice of reason. Like you." A pause. "You know, he really was a lot like you."

"That's because it's like Fives said back in the barracks: the same blood that flowed in his veins flows in mine. We're all connected that way," Cody replied. "He was good for you back in ARC training. Now, he's done his part. You have to keep doing yours. It's the best way to honor his memory."

Rex straightened up. "Killing whoever did this to him will be the best way to honor his memory."

Cody did not argue. There was much of General Skywalker in that statement, and the commander knew better than to try and overcome the emotional pique of the moment. Instead, he simply said, "As the war goes on, you may get your chance."

 _ **Hopefully, you remember Sempe and March from part I - two of Rex's troopers in the 501st. It's fun to take the nameless clones from the episodes and turn them into characters from the story! And don't worry about Echo and Fives' being named ARC troopers. It's coming!**_


	79. Chapter 78

_**Dear Reader, this is a no-action chapter, just tying up a few loose ends. Enjoy! CS**_

Chapter 78 Transitions and the Discovery

" _A man would do nothing if he waited until he could do it so well that no one could find fault."_

John Henry Newman

"Our losses could have been a lot worse," Obiwan noted. He and Anakin had just received the report from the casualty teams, and now they were headed back to the Resolute to take part in a debriefing on the entire engagement.

Anakin could not find the same ray of light. To him, one loss was one too many. He felt the deaths of his troopers to the very core of his being. And thus far, the death count from this battle was fifty-five from a battalion of 800 men. Fifty-five lives – gone. And Obiwan was saying things could have been worse . . .

Anakin changed the subject. "We had her," he groused. "We had her, and she escaped. I let her get away. I should have ordered the clones to kill her when I had the chance." He was, of course, referring to Ventress.

"We saved the cloning facilities, and that's what matters," Obiwan replied. "I blame myself for Grievous getting away, but at least, we saved Tipoca City. And they didn't get the Fett DNA."

"When I think of all the time we wasted near Florum, chasing Dooku . . . it was all a ruse meant to keep our attention focused away from the preparations for this attack," Anakin scowled. "The command has to start making smarter decisions."

"They can only act on the intelligence they have," Obiwan replied. "Let's just be grateful we got here in time to beat back the assault."

And although Anakin thought that was setting the bar rather low, he did not argue. The truth was he could not wait for the debriefing to be over so he could return to his troops and draw strength from them. Somehow, they added a steadying normalcy to his life.

As did Ahsoka. He was surprised to only now feeling his thoughts turn in her direction. He'd not thought about her once during the battle or its run-up. He was surprised to find he missed her – her snippy ways and youthful daring. And he wondered how she was doing, how long it would be before she rejoined him.

Unquestionably, she was worried about him and the 501st. A holo-con was in order – right after the debrief.

* * *

" . . . and work on the Taber is going as scheduled. I would estimate completion of the outer structure in three more days. The, uh, the Doma's people want to repair the inside themselves, and I think that's a good idea."

Ahsoka listened to Major Dunore's report with the requisite amount of interest. Not that the subject matter—rebuilding—bored her. In fact, it really had a lot of interesting facets to it. No, it was simply the fact that she would rather be on the front lines with her troops. And with her master. They had gone to take part in what was surely one of the pivotal battles of the war thus far. And here she was, overseeing security for a brigade of combat engineers who were perfectly capable of defending themselves. Her presence was completely unnecessary.

"So, when do you think you'll be completely finished up here, Major?" She tried not to sound too anxious.

"I would estimate five more days."

Ahsoka could not hide her frown. "Five days?"

"The Taber is a complex structure, Commander."

"Understood. Well, keep me informed."

Major Dunore left the makeshift command post Ahsoka had set up in the fore hangar of one of the engineers' transports which had landed outside the walls of the Monastica four days ago when the recovery efforts had begun.

It was functional but not very inviting; so when the major departed, Ahsoka was not far behind him. She needed to get outside and stretch her legs, clear her head. No matter how she tried to convince herself that it was fine for her to be here while her master and the 501st were on Kamino, she could not accept that this was a prudent use of her skills. Not only that, but her master needed her. Yes, it might have been big-headed of her to think so, but she truly believed that it was her job to protect him, even as it was his job to teach her.

She leaped up to the top of the Monastica's north-facing wall and down into the lush greenery of the oasis.

"How can I protect him if I'm stuck here and he's out there?" She complained out loud, for there was no one around to hear her. She took out her light saber, ignited it, and began doing exercises as she advanced along the pathway. "How can I learn anything from him when we're separated at the most important times? Master Plo Koon would have taken me with him. Anakin thinks he can do everything on his own. He thinks it's too dangerous for me. He won't say it, but I know that's what he's thinking." She lunged towards an imaginary foe. "He still thinks I'm a kid. Ho! And speaking of kid, what about Rex? He treats me like a child, and I'm older than he is!"

There, she had done it. She had allowed Rex to enter her thoughts in a perfectly reasonable progression. She'd gone from being angry at Anakin, to bemoaning Anakin treating her like a child, to _Rex_ treating her the same way. She hadn't gone indulged thoughts of Rex straight off the mark; she'd allowed the logical flow of thought to lead her there.

But now that he was on her mind . . .

"I hope he's okay. I know my master will watch out for him, but—who am I kidding? They're both so much alike, they're probably competing to see who can come up with the most ridiculous idea for killing droids," she grumped. Of course, it never occurred to Ahsoka how much she herself was like her master. What did occur to her, however, was the unacceptable nature of the thoughts she was encouraging with regard to Rex. "You shouldn't think about him in that way. You're training to be a Jedi. No attachments. And he—all he ever thinks about is war." She stopped her sparring. "That's not true either. He has other thoughts . . . but they're not about you." It was a painful admission.

"Commander Tano?"

" _Oh no . . . no, not right now. Of all the rotten timing . . . "_ Ahsoka turned towards the familiar voice. "Doma Maree."

The Doma approached from a side path. Ahsoka hadn't even sensed her presence.

"I was out on my evening prayer walk. I hope I didn't disturb you," Maree stated.

" _Well, that's funny. I was out here talking to myself and practicing with my light saber, you're out here praying, and_ you're _worried about disturbing_ me _?"_ Ahsoka thought to herself. She managed a smile. "No, you didn't disturb me. I hope I didn't disturb _you_."

"I heard you talking, and you sounded upset," Maree noted.

"Oh, well, I . . . I was just complaining about how hard it is to be a padawan," Ahsoka replied. "I don't know why my master left me back here instead of taking me to Kamino."

"Kamino?"

"The planet where the clones are produced," Ahsoka replied. "I mean, it's a perfect target for the Separatists. They take out Kamino, and that's the end of the Republic's supply of clones."

Maree stared at her with an unreadable expression, then at last, she said, "They've gone to defend the cloning facilities?"

And suddenly, Ahsoka realized she'd let slip an important piece of top secret information, and it was too late to take it back. "Yes," she replied sheepishly. "And you're not supposed to know that. That's classified information."

"It will go no further than right here," Maree assured her. After a pause, she went on. "Have you had any word on the state of the battle?"

"I can't divulge that," Ahsoka replied. The truth was she'd not had a single update. Still, she offered, "But you shouldn't worry. My master can handle anything." A pause. "Of course, I'd feel better if he had taken me with him."

"He trusted you to do a job here," Maree replied. "Joyful obedience is a virtue."

Ahsoka knit her brows in doubt. "He left me here because he's afraid I'll get hurt. Both he and Rex treat me like a kid. Well, I'm not a kid; and I could be doing a lot more if I were with them now."

"I don't think they treat you like a child," Maree deferred. "Not from what I saw. They both seemed to have great respect for your abilities." A small grin. "If not your wisdom."

"I've got plenty of wisdom," Ahsoka rebuffed in the very puerile manner which she was trying to deny.

"The wisdom of a sixteen-year-old," Maree noted.

"Well, then Rex only has the wisdom of an eleven-year-old," Ahsoka shot back.

"Wisdom . . . is not one of the captain's strong points," Maree replied, much to Ahsoka's surprise. "He's very clever, very inspiring. I could easily see what makes him a great leader to his men. He's smart." A pause. "But being smart isn't the same as being wise."

"You're right, it isn't," Ahsoka conceded. "But I'm surprised you don't think Rex has wisdom."

"Wisdom takes many years to acquire, and many experiences," Maree explained. She smiled fondly. "Certainly, Rex possesses the degree of wisdom I would expect of a man his age and in his position. But he has many other qualities which more than compensate for what he lacks. And to own the truth, I would rather he possess honesty, courage, and dedication than all the wisdom in the universe."

Ahsoka listened intently. She felt herself warming to the conversation. She liked hearing Rex spoken of in something other than a military context.

The Doma continued speaking. "He's very devoted to his men. I found that to be impressive."

"If you think he's devoted to them, you should see him with my master," Ahsoka put forth, a smile edging its way into her expression. "I think Rex would do anything for him." She gave a small laugh. "The two of them are so much alike. I don't know what my master would do without him."

"General Skywalker is a Jedi. He's not allowed to form attachments—of any kind," Maree said in an inquiring manner.

"That's easier said than done," Ahsoka replied. "I think his attachment to Rex is almost as strong as Rex's attachment to him." She looked perplexed. "The clones were engineered to be loyal, so Rex's attachment is no surprise. On the other hand, my master has very strong feelings, and for a Jedi, he hasn't really learned to control them. I guess that's why they still haven't made him a Jedi Master." A pause. "Sometimes it seems like the only person he really trusts is Rex. He definitely doesn't trust the Jedi Council. And like I said, he still think of me as a child who can only be trusted with certain tasks."

"And what about you? You're a padawan, a Jedi in training," Maree prompted. "Yet clearly, you have emotional attachments."

"Me? No, not really."

Maree found it amusing that the young girl before her actually thought she had a chance of hiding what was so obvious to anyone with attuned senses.

"How long have you loved Rex?" The Doma asked directly but with a tone of endearment.

Ahsoka felt her temperature rise. "I don't love Rex," she protested without hesitation, speaking as if the very idea were ridiculous.

"Yes, you do," Maree persisted. "I see the way your eyes light up at the mention of his name. I hear the excitement in your voice when he's the topic. There's no shame in admitting what you feel for him. He is a very good man."

Ahsoka hovered between indignation and conciliation. She was indignant that someone else could read her so easily. She was conciliatory in that she actually wanted to talk about Rex with someone who would listen and not judge her as a padawan or as a silly teenager. In her immediate circle of acquaintances, there was no one to whom she could speak of her attraction. It would be humiliating not only for her, but for Rex.

But Doma Maree was the competition. At least, that was the way it appeared from Ahsoka's perspective. How much open and honest conversation could they have when they both loved the same man?

"I guess I do feel something for him," she acknowledged at last. "But it doesn't matter."

"Because you think he loves me," the Doma finished the unspoken reasoning.

Ahsoka turned and looked at her earnestly. "Yes." She drew up her courage. "Doesn't he?"

"He says he does," Maree replied. "And I believe him."

"I mean, I saw you . . . I saw you with him before we left, and it . . . looked to me as if he was in love with you," Ahsoka stumbled through her words. She corralled her fortitude once again, hoping that there might still be a saving grace. "Do you love him?"

"Very much."

So much for grace.

The Doma continued. "He understands there's no chance for us to be together in this life. He pledged that he would wait until the life to come." Her expression became sad, almost melancholy. "That is a long time to wait. Death may always be near for a clone in the Grand Army of the Republic, but . . . Doma's live for thousands of years." A pause. "I'm not convinced that he truly knew what he was pledging himself to. For my own part, I will keep my word to him. If he finds the temptation too great, I would never hold it against him. And that, Padawan Tano, is why I am having this conversation with you. You have an attachment to him, whether you should or not. But that attachment can be for the good. He may slip away from what he feels for me, but don't let him slip away altogether. We have a saying, evil seeks out the good man to devour him. I fear Rex is just such a man. You are with him most of the time, and I can see that you love him." A pause. "I trust you to love him the way a padawan should."

Ahsoka was utterly confused, yet she managed to nod. "I will." She had no idea what she was agreeing to. _"Love him the way a padawan should?"_ What the hell did that mean? And shouldn't the Doma be more concerned with her own indiscretions?

Ahsoka got to her feet, suddenly anxious to part ways with the enigmatic holy woman. The conversation had turned to something deep and serious. Ahsoka was in no mood for deep and serious. "I appreciate you talking to me," she said curtly but with no hint of appreciation. All she wanted now was to get off this planet and back to the 501st, back to her master, back to the war. Anything to take her mind off this troubling conversation.

* * *

"You know, your two newbies really showed what they were made of," Cody remarked as he watched his lieutenants marshal the 212th survivors for boarding the shuttle that would take them back to the Resolute.

"You mean Echo and Fives," Rex presumed.

"Yeah. They came through under the worst of circumstances," Cody went on. He paused then spoke carefully. "I think Colt and Havoc would have wanted them to be ARC troopers after their performance today."

Rex looked up at Cody with unspoken gratitude. It was something Rex would never have thought of on his own, but it was perfectly fitting, and somehow it was a poignant way to honor the two fallen ARC commanders.

"As a field commander, I have it in my power," Cody stated. "They're your men. Just say the word."

Rex drew in a long, thoughtful breath. "It means running the risk of them being reassigned."

"We can probably hold that off for a while," Cody stated.

Rex nodded. "Let's go find them."

* * *

"I always knew Ninety-Nine would go out as a hero," Top said boldly, but there was a sad glint in his eye as he spoke. "There was no stopping that old man."

Echo sighed. "I just wish we'd been able to stop him."

"Why?" This from Hardcase. "It was better for him to dying doing what a soldier does than to die from all his ailments catching up with him. He always wanted to show that he was one of us, and he did. Risking his life to save the rest of you . . . that's the sign of true courage, of true brotherhood."

The image of Hevy flashed across Fives' mind. "I know."

"When my time comes, I want to go out in a blaze of glory, taking as many of the enemy with me as I can," Hardcase went on.

"Yeah, well, don't plan on it anytime soon," Top warned. "We need to keep this team together as long as possible." A pause. "Speaking of which, we'd better go find Pitch before he gets too tempted by the sight of so much destruction and starts lobbing his own explosives."

Echo found himself smiling. He liked the troopers in Saber Squad. While they were nothing like his own squad mates, they were more closely-knit than Bravo Squad had ever been; and Echo envied them their appreciation of each other's abilities. Their bond made him value, even more, the fact that he still had Fives and the friendship that they shared.

"See you boys back topside," Top said with a nod.

As Top walked away with Hardcase, Echo admired the company commander's pauldron and kama, the signs of his recent induction into the ranks of the ARC troopers. Echo had only met Flat Top a few days earlier at the battle on Bertegad. He'd certainly heard a lot about him, and from the past few days experience, he could say that all the scuttlebutt had been true. Top was an amazing officer in every sense – from his wits to his guts, from his tactical mind to his strategic sense. He clearly aspired to be like his captain, but was just as obviously as different in temperament from Captain Rex as could possibly be. The fact that Echo and Fives had ended up being assigned to his company had been a bit of good fortune, for Echo felt very certain that he was going to like working for this man.

"He doesn't seem like an ARC trooper," Fives said unexpectedly.

Echo looked at his curiously. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Fives said. "He just—he seems so . . . kind of . . . crazy."

"Don't you think every ARC trooper must have at least a little bit of 'crazy' in him?" Echo grinned. "Even the captain's done some pretty crazy stuff in the short time we've been assigned to the 501st."

"He owes that to General Skywalker," Fives replied.

"Maybe in part," Echo deferred. "But I think he brings a lot of it himself."

"Well, if craziness is a pre-requisite for being an ARC trooper, then I guess you and I are both out of the running," Fives said lightly.

At that moment, the sound of their captain's voice, subdued but commanding, came across the hangar in which they were standing.

"Echo, Fives."

The two clones came to attention as Rex approached with Commander Cody.

" _By the Force, what did we do wrong now?"_ Fives wondered. He was growing fearful that his own willfulness was going to get him kicked right into the rehabilitation program. He quickly started sifting through his actions here on Kamino, trying to pinpoint his error.

Though not their commanding officer, it was Commander Cody who took the initiative. "You both really stepped up in the heat of battle."

Hmm, not what Fives had been expecting.

Echo was already replying. "We did what we had to do, Sir."

"What any clone would have done," Fives added.

And although they may not have recognized it, these simple answers swelled their captain's chest with pride. He strode before them, puffed and poised like a man about to deliver a great speech.

"Both of you showed valor out there, real courage," he commended, then with a wry wit that only the captain of the renowned 501st could get away with, he added, "Reminded me of me, actually."

There it was. Cody recognized once more his friend's amazing ability to move past trials and mourning quickly. The harsh reality of Colt's death was less than two hours old, and Rex was already able to take on the affectations of humor and bravado. And while there might be a certain forced falseness to it, there was just as much honesty behind it. Rex was a man who could not long dwell on the miseries of war and life as a clone. In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to say that Rex was one of the most adept clones when it came to making the war a life-style; and in that life-style, there was little time for focusing on pity, grief, or difficulty. The sentiments and emotions might always be there, but Rex kept them at arm's length.

Cody, on the other hand, was more than well-suited to deal with situations both positive and negative. He'd certainly had his fill lately of the negative, and so now, he was determined to enjoy a moment of the good.

"Echo, Fives, you're both officially being made ARC troopers," the commander announced.

Echo could hardly believe his ears. He turned a speechless look of joy to his companion. Fives, perhaps feeling a bit more deserving, smiled in satisfaction.

It was a dream come true, a goal from their days as cadets – not so very long ago. A point of pride among the ranks of the great clone army.

A flash of brilliance that could not last.

Not in a galaxy at war.

* * *

At last, she was on her way back. Back to the 501st, back to her master, back to being where she felt she belonged. Ahsoka watched the world of Bertegad grow smaller on the port monitors. Any second now, it would blip out of sight completely as the ship went into hyperspace.

She had spent the last five days doing her utmost to avoid Doma Maree, not because she disliked the woman, but because she was a constant reminder that Rex was not the immovable fortress Ahsoka had always considered him to be. The fortress had yielded a bit, only in a direction different from the one Ahsoka would have liked.

The Doma seemed to have sensed Ahsoka's discomfort intrinsically, and so she had taken most status updates from Major Dunore, dealing with the padawan only in the manner of cordialities.

It wasn't until Ahsoka was about to leave that Maree had approached her to offer her people's gratitude that the subject of Rex came up again and in very brief measure.

"Keep him safe."

"He'd never accept the idea that I'm there to keep him safe," Ahsoka replied, then adding with a true smile, "He'd tell you he's there to protect me."

"One doesn't preclude the other," Maree pointed out, returning the smile. "Good luck in your training. The path of a Jedi is a worthy one."

Now, standing on the bridge of the shuttle, Ahsoka—though anxious to return to her battalion—was also feeling inexplicably uneasy, as if there were some decision to be made, but she did not know the question.

It was true, as the Doma had said, that Rex would never be returning to the Monastica. Doma Maree would never see him again, whereas Ahsoka would see almost every day. That should have given her a feeling of advantage, of comfort. Yet, she felt uneasy. The way of the Jedi would have been to meditate in order to discover the source of her disquiet; but Ahsoka was determined not to meditate. She did not want to know why she felt the way she did, for fear she would not like the answer.

Yes, maybe it was true that she did love Rex. Maybe it was true that she had formed an attachment where none should exist. And it appeared that attachment went only one way. But these things she had lived with since first meeting Rex and deciding in the ruined shadows of Christophsis that he was as close to the ideal man as she could imagine. It had taken her less than five minutes to come to that conclusion, but her certainty had never wavered. The fact was that over a year had gone by, and in that year, she'd not felt in the least bit wary of her infatuation with the captain. Why now? What was this sense of misgiving when she thought about the Monastica and Rex?

No matter how great her curiosity, even greater was her desire not to know.

* * *

Doma Maree watched the shuttle until it disappeared from view.

There was something very sad about that moment, for it marked the end of an amazing time – the short stretch of days during which some small fragment of the Grand Army of the Republic and its amazing clone corps had come to this place – a place generally insignificant to the war effort, made important for a fleeting moment only by the crash of a ship . . .

It was sheer happenstance that had brought the clones to Bertegad, a twist of fate that had thrown Rex in her path, and one final twist that had removed him again.

She began the long, slow walk back to the Taber. At the moment, she felt that the company of the animal souls housed therein would be the most soothing. As she passed between the wings of the healing rooms, she heard the familiar voice of Fels Au-Linus behind her.

"Doma, I was just going to see you," he greeted her. "There's something I wanted to show you that I think you might find interesting."

Maree did a creditable job of hiding the fact that she would rather be among the souls at the moment, but she considered that a brother as serious as Au-Linus would not have sought her out had he not something truly fascinating to show her.

"Of course, what is it?" she asked politely.

"If you'll come inside with me," Linus said, and they began walking. He did not say another word until they had reached their destination, which, surprisingly, was not the healing rooms or even the labs. He led her to the records vaults. "We were reviewing the clones' records prior to submitting them to the clerk for filing, just making sure everything was included . . . and we noticed an anomaly." He took a stack of records from the clerk that had been set aside. "We have a full body scan of every clone that went into the cold field. There were five of them. The initial scan—" He removed a scan tab from one of the folders and inserted it into a holo-reader, "—shows this deviation in all five." The image showed a highly detailed holographic image of the clone's brain. The deviation Linus was pointing out was a clear aberration in the construct of the brain tissue.

"What is it?" Marie asked.

"I had some of the other doctors take a look, and according to the cold field's data, it's an organic plat of some kind," Linus replied. "But it's not active tissue. It has blood flow, but it has no mitochondrial activity, it doesn't replenish itself." A pause. "It is definitely a foreign body implanted in the brain, but to what end, I couldn't tell you." He flipped through several more images. "Now, here's the interesting part. After the cold field's molecular correction . . . it's gone. The cold field didn't change it into brain tissue. It simply destroyed it as a foreign body."

Maree was stunned. "I . . . don't suppose we have any actual samples of the tissue."

"No, Doma," Linus replied. "We didn't even notice the abnormality until the clerk began cataloging the scans, which was only this morning. With the cold field, we usually just let the machine do its job and trust its detection systems. None of the clones had head injuries, so we didn't focus on cranial images when reviewing the initial scans." He looked at her curiously. "You didn't sense this in them when you did the Skrit-Na?"

"No," Maree replied. "Whatever it was, it wasn't making them sick. Do you have any hypotheses as to what its purpose could be?"

"We would need to do more research," Linus told her.

"Then do so," Maree ordered. "If five of them had it, then it's not an accident." A pause. "The five who were in the cold fields . . . Echo, Kix, Gernot, Puzzle, and Rex. There were no others?"

"Just those five."

"And they all had the same abnormality, and it was gone in all of them after the cold field?" Maree asked as a manner of confirmation.

"Yes, Doma."

Maree frowned. "Then it stands to reason that the rest of them have it, as well."

"I think that's a reasonable conclusion," Linus agreed.

"What if it was something . . . they needed? As clones?" Maree asked. "Could we have put them in danger by removing it?"

"The five clones in question appeared unaffected," Linus replied. "Removing it certainly didn't do them any harm."

"That we know of," Maree added. "See if you can find out what it is . . . and what purpose it serves. If we've done something that mistakenly hurts them, we'll have to find a way to get word to Captain Rex."

Au-Linus nodded. "We'll get to work on it right away, Doma."


	80. Chapter 79

_**Dear Reader, Sorry it's taken me a long time to get this chapter up. I needed a transition into the next segment, and this was not pre-written like most of my chapters. I also have to set up the bond in Saber Squad due to some upcoming scenarios. Lastly, I hope you will remember BB—the pilot who from Bertegad who has a little thing for Ahsoka (and she for him). He's in chapter 34. And then Captain Snap (from Cody's Squad in ARC training) also makes an appearance. I hope you enjoy! Peace, CS**_

* * *

Chapter 79 Ripples in the Current

" _Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there someday."_

 _Winnie-the-Pooh_  
A. A. Milne

* * *

"Did you hear? The general put in for a 10-day stand down, and it was granted. We're on our way back to Coruscant." The enthusiasm in Hardcase's voice was clear.

"Fantastic!" Pitch replied with equal excitement.

Jesse was more reserved. "Ten days shore leave on Coruscant . . . wonderful. I wonder how much trouble you all can get into over the course of ten days—and how many times I'll be called downtown to bail you out."

"Now, that's not fair, Jessie," Pitch chastised. "We've never been hauled in."

"Maybe not you four, but the platoon has 25 other men in it," Jesse reminded him. "And they've had their fair share of . . . shore leave issues." He shook his head. "I still say it was a huge mistake to start opening up clone bars."

"And I say it was a great idea!" Hardcase pushed back. "How else are we supposed to ever meet any women?"

"You wouldn't want the kind of women you meet in those places," Jesse pointed out, drawing on the elitism that defined the members of the 501st.

Top put an arm around his squad leader's shoulders. "It's not as if we're going to find the likes of Senator Chuchi or Amidala banging down our doors, Jes. But still I agree with you: we can do much better than the bar leeches."

"There were pretty women back on Bertegad," Hardcase stated. "And they were definitely interested in us—"

"They were religious sisters!" Kix pointed out.

"Not all of them."

"Look, I'm just happy to have some down time," Jessie interjected. "It'll be nice to have a good meal instead of the usual dining facility stuff."

"Here, here!" Top agreed. "And I, for one, as the newest ARC trooper to grace this squad's ranks—in fact, the _only_ ARC trooper—I give you my word that I, for one, will absolutely not get into any trouble. And furthermore . . . " He fixed Hardcase, Kix and Pitch with a warning glare, "I can guarantee that these three will stay squeaky clean the whole time."

Jesse shook his head. "The day you behave yourself will be the day time goes backward."

"I agree."

The unexpected voice caused them all to get hastily to their feet.

"General Skywalker," Jesse and Top said in unison.

"At ease," the general said with a flash of warmth that the clones had come to expect from him – when not on the battlefield. "Carry on. It was an interesting conversation."

"Just looking forward to some shore leave, General," Top put forth. "And the opportunity to keep these boys in line."

Jesse grimaced sideways at him, then to General Skywalker, "And we thought he had a big head before he went to ARC training," he jabbed with good humor.

Anakin chuckled. "Is he forgetting who the platoon leader is?"

"He would if I let him," Jesse replied, then after a brief hesitation. "But I am wondering, Sir: with Top now being an ARC trooper, are you going to move him up to be a platoon leader?"

"That's Rex's decision," Anakin replied. "And he'd be the first to tell you that just because a clone makes ARC trooper, that doesn't mean he's fit to be a platoon leader – or even a squad leader for that matter."

"Are you saying I'm not fit, Sir?" Top poked with a wry grin.

"I would never say that about you, Top," Anakin replied. "In fact, I think your big head is well-deserved. Almost as well deserved as your captain's."

This brought a round of conspiratorial snickers from the members of Saber Squad. It was one thing for them to take the occasional fond poke at their captain; but when General Skywalker did it, it was like hearing a bit of scuttlebutt, something off-limits and well . . . perhaps a bit . . . naughty.

And they loved it. They loved it all the more because they held both Captain Rex and General Skywalker in high regard, revering and respecting them as an unbeatable team.

"The captain was my example," Top offered. "If I can ever lead men one-hundredth as well as he does, that will be good enough for me."

"You just keep your leadership here," Kix chimed in. "We don't need Sector Headquarters noticing how brilliant you are and deciding to reassign you."

Top nudged him in the side. "We were born together. We're going to die together, LB."

Anakin could hear the conviction in his voice, and it amazed him that Top actually believed his own words. He believed they would all go out together – as a squad. Sometimes, it happened that way. Too often, in fact. How often was it that an entire platoon was annihilated? An entire battalion?

But he'd never heard the clones speak of such things . . . until now. And they were all agreeing to the same idea – they had come into existence together, they lived together, and they would die together. It was touching but not the sort of vow or promise a fighting man should make.

Yet, he found himself falling into the trap of brotherhood. "If that happens, I hope I go with you."

Pitch deferred with a grin. "Nah, Sir. You have to stick around long enough to avenge us."

They all shared a laugh, and then Jesse decided it was time to change the subject to something less demanding. "Do you have plans for shore leave, General?"

"In fact, I do; though not all of it is going to be relaxing," he replied with the easy manner that made his troops feel as if they were a part of his inner circle, no matter how far they might be removed from the grand world of Jedi and politicians in which he moved. The members of the 501st all knew, to a man, that General Skywalker would rather be with them than with the stuffed shirts that occupied the Senate – or the Jedi Council, for that matter.

But in their certainty, they were only partly correct.

For Anakin Skywalker, there could be no greater joy than the prospect of returning to Coruscant. For a return to Coruscant meant a return to Padme. And a return to Padme meant the restoration of his soul. Despite the secrecy under which they lived their life as husband and wife, Anakin could not imagine a more perfect union. He would have traded everything – even his status as a Jedi – if only Padme had asked it of him. But from the first moments of their declarations of love back at the start of the clone wars, they had come to the arrangement under which they now labored: that of a forbidden, furtive love, revelation of which would have negative consequences for both of them.

Anakin knew that his lackadaisical view of the consequences of their relationship rankled Padme no little amount, keeping the fear alive in her that he might one day blurt out the truth to the entire galaxy. He was passionate that way, full of vigor and intensity; and she knew that. It was one of the things she most loved about him, even as it concerned her.

Anakin's thoughts were on Padme as he answered Jessie's question. "I've got a dinner with politicians on the third night after we get back. I hate that sort of thing, but she—Senator Amidala asked me to attend."

"Sounds like a real hardship, Sir," Pitch teased.

"You have no idea," Anakin continued. "She's hosting a state dinner for Senator Aang—" He saw the clones' blank stares. "Roonan? It doesn't matter. Anyway, he's a pain, but Senator Amidala wants his vote on some legislation she's working on. She's already stressing out over it."

Hardcase, never one to pass up the opportunity to exercise his suspicious and probing nature, asked, "Sounds like a big to-do, General. How did you get on the guest-list?"

Jessie scowled at him, but Hardcase paid no heed.

Anakin considered that he might have offered a bit too much information. He needed to back out the discussion without incurring greater suspicion. "The Senator wanted some Jedi security in addition to the regular Coruscant Guard. There are going to be a lot of powerful people in attendance. I volunteered."

"But I thought you didn't like that sort of gathering—"

"They have great food," Anakin interrupted. "Senator Aang's favorite dessert is Jogan Fruit Cake. That alone makes it worth it."

Kix could not help himself. "Do you know how much cytoglyde is in a Jogan Fruit Cake? One small slice would give you a hang-over for days."

Anakin marveled at the medic's single-mindedness. "That's probably why Senator Aang likes it so much," he quipped.

"Not to mention what it does to a human's liver—" Kix went on.

"Ah yes, I can tell LB is fully recovered," Top prodded. "He's once again pointing out that all the things that make life worth living . . . hasten us towards an early death."

"Don't' get him started, Top," Hardcase warned.

Anakin regarded Kix with a grin. "Well, before you start with the litany, I want to say that I'm glad you're well," he put forth. "I heard there was a real concern you weren't going to make it. That would have been a heavy loss."

Kix, too modest to boast of his own worth—unlike his squad mates—met this praise with a diffident nod and no words. His squad mates were not as reserved.

"Worst two weeks of my life," Jesse admitted.

"Mine, too," Pitch agreed.

"You know, if I'd been there—" Top began, but Hardcase cut him off.

"Don't even try, bigwig! When you saw he was okay, you just about fell apart! I thought you were going to break down in tears. If you had been there, you'd have been the worst of us!"

"I have strong emotions," Top sniffed with a voice of superiority.

Anakin was pleased that they felt comfortable enough in his presence to let their guards down and speak openly, including him in their banter.

"So, what do you say we head on over to the mess hall and grab a bite?" the general suggested, then to Kix, "I'm sure you can find something non-toxic in their selections."

* * *

The star scape from this vantage point was truly dazzling. Rex could actually see the Habers Nebulae with its array of orange and yellow bands clearly defined. It was a stunning view, and Rex pondered the fact that he'd never noticed it before. He had passed through this region of space many times going to and from the outer rim, but he'd never noticed the stars. He'd had neither the time nor the interest.

He had the time now. The interest had only recently been awakened in him, and he knew why. He often thought back on his conversation with Doma Maree in which she'd accused him of never noticing the wonder of his own existence or that of creation. Looking at the stars now, he was once again reminded of her words.

" _We pass ourselves by without wondering. That's you, Captain."_

Perhaps if she had known him earlier, before experience had tempered him a bit, she might have thought that he'd been a bit _too_ full of wonder, at least where his own existence was concerned. But events had changed him, even going as far back as ARC training. Being back on Kamino had resurrected many dormant memories of the events there and the man Rex had once been. Numerous battles later, with the deaths of countless numbers of brothers behind him, he had come to view the galaxy much more soberly now, although working for General Skywalker kept him from sinking into the depths of being too serious, and a spark of blitheness still invigorated his spirit. Apparently, his wistfulness had not been fully laid to rest, and it was that seed which Doma Maree had detected within him; she had appealed to his impetuosity. That appeal had stayed with him and prodded continually at his consciousness.

He was surprised, really. In the midst of the battle on Kamino, she'd not once entered his thoughts. But now that the battle was nearly a week behind him, not a day went by when he did not think of her and the idyllic life within those desert walls. He recalled his pledge often and with full intention of keeping it. After all, he had little opportunity to break his oath; and that made upholding it all the easier.

Still, he considered himself a strong enough man to stand by his word, once given.

"Jesse told me I'd probably find you up here."

Rex turned at the sound of Cody's voice. "Now, that's truly frightening, when my men can know me well enough that they can accurately predict where I'm going to be and when."

Cody grinned. "They do seem to have a good handle on what to expect from you." A pause. "We should be arriving on Coruscant in about two hours."

"You came up here to tell me that? You could have told me over the comlink and saved yourself a trip."

"I decided I might enjoy the view as well," Cody answered.

The two men stood side-by-side in silence for nearly a minute, looking out the window, before Cody spoke again. "Any plans for shore leave?"

Rex shook his head. "Not really. You know I can't stand to be away from the action for too long."

"Ten days isn't exactly what I would call long," Cody replied.

"I guess not."

Cody turned a curious, sidelong gaze towards him. "Something on your mind?"

Rex drew in a deep breath. "I was reading some of the post-battle reports from Kamino." A pause during which his face took on a pained expression, despite his best attempts to hide his emotions. "Over a million casualties. A million brothers. In one battle that lasted less than a day."

Cody frowned. "I saw that, too. Most of them were in the growth towers."

"A million lives . . . gone." His voice betrayed a pensive melancholy, the likes of which Cody had not heard from Rex in a long time. "And I . . . I can't help but wonder if . . . if they'll just make more." A pause. "Replacement units."

"I imagine they will," Cody replied with empathy. "That is what they're being paid for – to produce an army."

"Do you think anyone will mourn them?"

Cody was perplexed. "Rex, this isn't like you." He waited to see if Rex would continue without prompting, but the captain was silent. So, Cody pursued. "What's going on?"

Rex deflected. "Eh, nothing. Just . . . too much time to think. That's why it's not good for me to be away from the battlefield."

Cody simpered. "I'm not going to let you off on such a stupid answer. Something's got in your head, and it doesn't belong there."

Rex raised an eyebrow. "Weren't you the one who always told me I needed to be more serious?"

"Serious is fine," Cody replied. "Morose is not. You go back to your men like this, and they're going to wonder where their captain went. So, you can either tell me what's bothering you or you can work it out on your own; but something must have happened between Kamino and right now, because you weren't like this when we were in Tipoca City."

"We were fighting for our lives in Tipoca City," Rex reminded him. "Besides . . . it wasn't until after I read the casualty reports and saw how many had died that I . . . " He didn't know how to finish the sentence, and so he let his voice fall off into the silence.

Cody did not try to complete his friend's statement. Instead, he waited patiently, knowing that Rex had something he needed to get out.

And at length, Rex continued. "On Bertegad, Doma Maree showed me—showed us—animal souls. Millions of them. Souls that had come to her after death. I was right there. I saw them with my own eyes, and I—I'm still not sure I believe it." He grimaced. "She said—she said that _we_ have souls, and that there are other beings like her who guard the souls of the dead—the human dead."

Cody was still puzzled. "That's what's troubling you? I think it would be a comforting thought, whether it's true or not."

"That's not it, Commander," Rex replied. "The thing that bothers me is that . . . I saw it first-hand. There was absolutely no question about what I was witnessing. Yet here I am, refusing to believe my own eyes. I find the idea of a _soul_ hard to believe in." A pause. "It's hard for me to think that the sudden deaths of millions of my brothers has . . . cast millions of souls into . . . thin air." He turned away and directed his gaze back out the window. "It's easier to think that when they died, everything they were went with them."

"No soul at all," Cody presumed.

Rex was frank. "I didn't understand it on Bertegad. I don't understand it here."

Cody decided to put out a tentative feeler. "But on Bertegad, Doma Maree made it all a little easier to accept?"

"You met the woman," Rex replied. "She has the certainty that everyone wants. She deals in life after death. It's almost impossible not to have hope when you're around her."

"I would agree with that," Cody replied. "And I wasn't around her for nearly the amount of time the rest of you were. So, what? Not being around her suddenly makes you think everything you saw was some sort of illusion or hallucination?"

Rex scowled. "No. I know it was real. I just—if—if there are others like the Doma and they protect human souls, how come we've never come across them in all our travels?"

Before Cody could answer, Rex went on. Now that the floodgates were open, he was going to let the river flow. "All the brothers who have been killed since the war started—where are their souls? What about—we can't even conceive of how many lives from all species have been lost since the universe began. Where are all of those souls?"

"I don't know," Cody replied. "General Kenobi will vouch for the fact that souls exist. He's seen the soul of his former master. He's even talked with him. I don't pretend to understand any of it. But I don't see why you should be getting all worked up over this."

Rex was cooler as he answered, "Because I want to know if there really is a next life. And if there is, do we have a part in it?"

Cody grinned. "Whatever happened back on Bertegad must really have been something to make you think about things like that. You've always been a here-and-now kind of guy."

"I still am," Rex insisted. "I'm just not sure where the here-and-now ends anymore."

It was the sort of indecision, the sort of vulnerability Rex would never show to his troopers, and Cody respected that. The men of the 501st thought their captain was indestructible, unwavering in his decisions, and certain in his convictions.

Cody would not disavow them of their beliefs, but he could not ignore what he was hearing.

"I don't pretend to understand any of that metaphysical stuff," Cody admitted. "I know we have a purpose for which we were created, and a duty to fulfill that purpose. Whether or not there's a next life has no bearing on what I do in this life. As clones, we have the tendency to live like there's no tomorrow. That means getting everything you can out of each moment."

Rex regarded him with an unreadable expression. "There are things we can't have in this life."

Cody narrowed his eyes. He felt he was honing in on something. "Lots of things. You have something particular in mind?"

Rex did not hesitate. "Freedom."

Cody smiled. "That's one thing about you that hasn't changed. You still want to soar . . . just like the lunar hawk back on Myotta." He paused. "Do you really think we'll never have our freedom? If we survive the war?"

"You don't understand, Cody," Rex replied. "I could be the freest man in the galaxy . . . and I still wouldn't be able to have what I want."

With that, he turned and headed for the door, leaving Cody to wonder at the meaning of his words. But to Cody, the meaning was clear enough.

More had happened on Bertegad than even the commander had suspected.

* * *

"Can't you go out on your own? It's our first night back, and I'd like to just relax with some tech manuals," Echo implored from his bunk in the transient billets at the military port where the Resolute had berthed. The entire ship had been cleared in order for detox crews to conduct a routine decontamination, followed by a preventive maintenance inspection. The maintenance director for the facility had decided that as long as the ship was in port for ten days, they mightaswell make the most use of the time and run a full-point inspection.

And so Echo and Fives, along with the rest of the ship's complement, found themselves occupying the rather austere transient billets that serviced that particular military space port.

Echo had already settled comfortably into his bunk with a long reading list.

Fives had other ideas. "You can read those manuals any time. How often do we get to Coruscant? This is our first time since we were assigned to Rishi, our first time _ever_. Aren't you curious to see what it's like?"

"Not in the least."

"Echo! What's wrong with you? This is the center of the Republic! This is where everything's happening. Nightlife, entertainment, good food," Fives pressed, but he could see his words were having absolutely no persuasive effect. So, he decided to change tack. "You know, I really can't figure you out. You're so into reading and tech and all kinds of miscellaneous, meaningless junk. But when you have the opportunity to visit the greatest library in the known galaxy, you decide to stay in bed." It might have been an exaggeration, but Fives was desperate.

Still, Echo was not ignorant of his friend's ploys. "If you're referring to the Jedi Library, I've already made an appointment for tomorrow."

"Agh! So, if you're going to spend all day—and probably all night—in the library tomorrow, why not come out with me tonight?" Fives pleaded his case. "Think of this – we'll both be wearing our ARC trooper kit. Enh? How 'bout that? We won't just be regular grunts anymore. We'll have the respect that comes with being an ARC trooper."

"What sort of respect do you hope to find in some dive bar?" Echo retorted with a grin. "Besides, the captain's made it very clear how he expects us to behave on shore leave."

"I'm not planning to stir up any trouble, Echo. I'll tell you what: we'll go to a restaurant for dinner and then—only if you want to—maybe we can get a drink at one of the, uh, nicer bars, huh?"

"They probably don't let clones into the nicer bars," Echo replied. "And from all I've heard, I have no desire to go to a clone bar."

Fives had reached his limit of polite persuasion. "Echo, fek and all, if you don't get up off that bunk and come with me, I'm going to keep badgering you so much, you won't be able to read a single word."

Echo rolled his eyes, sat up, and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. "Fine, I'll get back into my armor. But, for the record . . . you've become a lot pushier since you became an ARC trooper."

* * *

This was the moment he'd been looking forward to for the last ten days in transit from Kamino. He'd left redeployment activities in Rex's capable hands, given a very curt debrief first to the GAR Plans and Operations Office then to the Jedi Council. He'd parted ways with Obiwan, and now he was about to cross the threshold into the arms of person who mattered most to him.

The door swished aside, and there stood . . .

"Oh! Master Ani! What a pleasant surprise! Oh, perhaps not a surprise—we knew you were coming home, but this is sooner than expected. How pleased Mistress Padme will be! She has spoken of nothing else since—"

"It's good to see you, Threepio," Anakin interrupted, mustering a grin. He knew if he did not cut off the droid's flow of words at this second, the welcome home would grow only more profuse. "I am a little bit early, but don't say anything. I want to surprise Padme."

"Oh! Well, if I may . . . Mistress Padme went to an emergency meeting of the Senate. She did not think you would be arriving so soon, or I'm sure she would have—"

"An emergency meeting of the Senate?" Anakin was rankled by this news. "What's happened?"

"By my gears, I do not know," Threepio replied, "But Artoo seems to think it has something to do with the funding bill for increasing the size of the clone army."

"Great," Anakin huffed. "That's just great. How long ago did she leave?"

"Nearly an hour, Master Ani," Threepio said.

"And with all the hot air coming from those senators, she'll probably be gone half the night," Anakin grunted. "They couldn't have called their damned meeting earlier? Unbelievable."

He loosened his leather tunic with angry, jerkish movements and tossed it on the long couch as he headed for the bedroom and a much needed cold shower. "I should have gone out with the troops," he muttered.

But when the door opened, his pulse quickened and all thoughts of a night with the troops vanished.

The darkened room was lit only by a dozen glow lights and stylish pulse-light water globes hovering in mid-air. _Scansole_ music bubbled up just within audible range, its point and counterpoint trading an erotic melody. The bed was adorned in the rich, sumptuous linens that had always marked the wealth and prestige of the Senator from Naboo.

But not the lights, nor the music, nor the alluring bed dressings could hope to distract from the central figure for which the rest was just a backdrop.

She was waiting for him. Standing there at the foot of the bed, wearing the sort of sheer dressing gown that did nothing to proclaim modesty.

Anakin stepped inside, quickly closing the door on the innocuous eyes of the curious protocol droid.

Padme curled her lips in a provocative smile. "I'm sure you can still catch up with your troops, if that's what you want."

Anakin cross the room in three strides. "Not a chance."

* * *

Ahsoka walked through the Resolute's main hangar at a leisurely pace, taking in the orderly fashion in which every ship, every crate, every piece of equipment was stored. She wasn't conducting an inspection—no, Rex had already taken care of that. And done a superior job of it, as always. As first-in-command of the 501st, Rex was not part of the operational command of the ship any more than General Skywalker or General Kenobi were. Admiral Yularen was the ultimate authority over shipboard activities, but the responsibility for both the 212th's and the 501st's ships and equipment lay with their commanding generals.

Both Generals Kenobi and Skywalker kept their battalion areas neat, clean, and organized. To to be more accurate, their first-in-commands kept them that way. Cody and Rex were masters of getting things done quickly and thoroughly. Redeployment preparations always ran the risk of being accomplished in a haphazard, half-finished manner, especially when shore leave was being dangled tantalizingly at arm's length.

But as Ahsoka strolled past the rows of sleeping gunships, she noted with satisfaction that even the hangar floor was spotless and gleaming. Everything was quiet and peaceful, with only the hum of machinery set on low power to accompany her.

It felt good to be back with her battalion. It felt good to be back with Anakin.

It had not taken her as much time as she'd imagined to get over her upset at having been left behind during the Battle of Kamino. The men had regaled her with accounts of the action and expressed how they wished she had been there with them. That had gone a long way towards making her feel better.

The one person she hadn't yet had a chance to speak to one-on-one was Rex. Yes, she'd seen him many times since rejoining the battle group, but there had always been many other people around, discussing the business of war, demanding his time or her time. And now, the captain had left the ship and set off on ten days of shore leave. Unless she found a reason to contact him, that was ten more days of no Rex at all. And this bothered Ahsoka, for she wanted to see what, if anything, she could discern in his demeanor that might speak to the events on Bertegad and just how firm his attachment to the Doma was – not that she wanted to test it, just . . . ascertain its strength.

The sound of something hitting the floor hard behind her startled her. She whirled around and drew in a breath of relief to see BB rising from a crouch-landing.

"BB."

"Sorry if I scared you, Commander," the pilot apologized. "I was finishing up some minor adjustments in the cockpit."

"You didn't scare me," Ahsoka replied. "I was surprised, though. I didn't know anyone was still here."

BB smiled. "You couldn't sense my presence in the Force?"

Ahsoka simpered. "By now, you should know that's not how it works," she chastised with a hint of playfulness in her voice. "We're not attuned to every presence at every second." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Although I should be fully attuned to you. You're a little hard to miss."

BB thought this was a funny thing to say, given that he still sported the standard Fett appearance, the only deviation being the a small full color tattoo of the 212th's crest high on his left cheek. "I'll take that as a compliment, ma'am."

"We're off-duty, BB. You can call me Ahsoka," the padawan informed him.

"Eh, not quite sure I'd feel comfortable with that just yet," BB replied. "Someday, but not yet."

Ahsoka warmed to his words. "Okay. But I still get to call you BB, instead of CT-8761."

"Agreed."

They continued through the hangar together. "Heading into the city tonight?" BB asked.

"After I'm done here," Ahsoka replied.

"Care for some company?"

Ahsoka considered. "Yes, I think I would." She pointed a finger at him, "But only if you promise not to get into any trouble."

"You must be thinking of someone else, Commander," he replied with a wink. "I never get in trouble. In fact, I'm usually the one getting others out of trouble."

And as a pilot who specialized in extractions, he was telling the truth in more ways than one.

"Well, I can guarantee you, you won't have to get me out of trouble," Ahsoka beamed.

"Then we'll meet at disembark 2 in . . . an hour?" BB suggested, referring to the main disembarkation ramp for the Resolute.

"Oh, I don't need that long. Make it thirty minutes."

"Thirty minutes it is, Commander."

* * *

"Your comlink is buzzing again."

"I told you, it can wait," Anakin said, his voice distant and filled with the breathy stupor of a man coming up from the depths of love-making.

Padme stroked the back of his head as he lay with his cheek nestled against one breast. "It could be an emergency."

"Like the emergency meeting you pretended to be at?" Anakin challenged, a smile forming on his lips.

"I wanted to surprise you, so I had to make it convincing," she tittered. "The Senate has emergency meetings all the time. I knew you'd believe Threepio when he told you."

Anakin chuckled. "I can't believe you convinced Threepio to lie." He raised his head and pressed a gentle kiss under her chin. "Getting the droid to do your dirty work?"

"I'll use whatever assets I have at hand," Padme purred. "And you know, I have a lot of assets."

"Oh, I definitely know that."

The comlink continued to buzz. "Ani, you'd better answer that. They've been trying all night. Soon, they're going to send someone out to look for you."

Anakin groaned in displeasure as he got up to pull on some clothes. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

He could not answer the comlink call from Padme's apartment, for if anyone ever decided to be clever and trace the signal from his communication, they would be able to see that he'd been at a senator's house at two o'clock in the morning. And that would raise all kinds of questions.

So, he took his speeder and drove several blocks away to one of the active and hip areas of the all-night Coruscant entertainment hub. No one would be surprised to discover he'd been in this area all night. On his way, he noted that the incoming communique was from Obiwan.

Of course! Leave it to Obiwan to disrupt a night of blissful reunion.

"Obiwan, this is Anakin."

"Anakin, where have you been? I've been trying to get you for hours."

"I didn't have my comlink with me, Master," Anakin replied. "What's going on? It's almost two-thirty in the morning."

"Sector Six Headquarters has called an emergency holocon," Obiwan replied. "GAR Ops tasked our battle group to be present."

Anakin scowled into the neon-lit night. "I hope this doesn't mean they're going to cut into our shore leave."

"I can almost guarantee it will. You have twenty minutes to be at GAR Headquarters in War Room Five."

"Do I need to bring Rex—"

"I already contacted him when I couldn't reach you. You better get on your way. I'll see you there."

"Right, see you there."

Anakin closed the link, and his thoughts went instantly to Padme. "She's not going to like this . . . "

* * *

Upon entering War Room Five with less than a half-minute to spare, Anakin was happy to see Rex was already there, in full armor, helmet balanced between his forearm and hip, looking as bright and alert as ever. It was a relief, too, for Anakin himself, having raced back to Padme's to dress appropriately, was still pulling himself together as he walked into the room.

To Rex's right, Obiwan gave a subtle disapproving shake of his head, as if he could not believe that his former padawan was not only borderline late but also looking as if he'd rolled straight out of a bunk wearing the same cloths he'd slept in. Beside Obiwan, Commander Cody stood still and observant.

There were at least six holographic images around the projection grid. Two were from Sector Six, two from Sixth Army, and two (one of whom was a Jedi) from one of Sixth Army's premier combat units, the 808th Infantry – the Womp Rats, as they liked to call themselves.

Right away, Anakin had a feeling that bad news was coming. The 808th was operating on Kettrun, a planet well-known for harboring terrorists and operating terrorist training camps supporting the Separatist cause. Kettrun attracted malcontents from the hundreds of worlds comprising the Separatist movement or simply disaffected souls whose overriding desire was to inspire terror in the hearts of peace-loving peoples.

The 808th had gone there as part of a planetary-wide invasion. Last word Anakin had heard was that the invasion was going well, wiping out many of the training camps. The fact that an emergency holocon had been called might be an indication that things were not moving as smoothly as reported.

The presiding officer over the meeting was General Pehn-na'qa of Sector Six Headquarters. He was a humanoid, non-clone man hailing from Bespin. A revered combat commander, his presence merited great respect.

"Gentlemen, we have a situation on Kettrun," he began without fanfare. "The Separatists have sent four droid combat brigades to Kettrun to defend against our attacks on the terrorist training camps. The 808th, along with three other combat and support battalions, has been diverted to combat the droids. Ninety percent of the camps have been destroyed, and it'll take a hell of a long time for them to be returned to any useful status. But the largest camp is still intact. It needs to be taken out, and we don't have the resources to do it. This base—" The holomap brought up a three dimensional image of a great rift covered in jungle. Zooming in, the image dashed below the tree-top canopy to reveal a sprawling, single-story facility. "This base is your target. We estimate between three-and-four thousand combatants are there. But it could be as many as six thousand. A droid contingent has been deployed there for additional protection." A pause, as he turned to his companion. "General Medge."

Medge, the Sixth Army Commander, was a striking figure with skin as black as the Pools of Melkion and a deep voice that seemed to reverberate even through the mechanism of the hologram.

"A small strike force can sneak into the area undetected, set charges, and take out the entire complex," he began. "The reasons for a small force are simple: it will be easier to get past the patrols, they can move quicker than a large element, and . . . frankly, we don't have the manpower for an overwhelming assault."

"Can't you just fire some missiles from one of your ships in the atmosphere, General?" Obiwan queried.

"We could, if we could get past the Separatist battle group," Medge replied. "I'm down to sixty percent of my ships. My ground units have lost almost fifty percent of their men. The Separatists are putting up a fight to protect this place, because they use these trained terrorists to spread panic and fear throughout the galaxy, and then they offer to protect the citizenry against the very terrorists they themselves are funding. This is how they've managed to bring so many planets into their fold."

Pehn-na'qa spoke again. "Admiral Yularen, Generals Kenobi and Skywalker, I've already put in the request to GAR HQ, and they've approved tasking your battle group with providing the incursion team. They should be transmitting the operations order any minute now. I'm sure they will be contacting you shortly to confirm the order." A pause. "I know you just came off that Kamino business and were looking forward to some downtime. I'm sorry it's turned out otherwise."

"No apologies necessary, General," Admiral Yularen replied. "We'll be waiting for the OPORD from GAR Headquarters."

"Good. Once you receive it, it will give all the details of where the team is to report. Are there any questions?" Pehn-na'qa asked.

"No questions," Obiwanr replied.

"Yes, I have a question," Anakin spoke up.

"Master . . . Skywalker, is it?" Pehn-na'qa acknowledged.

"Yes," Anakin replied. "Intel reports have said that the entire populace of Kettrun is hostile to the Republic, that the entire population is made up of terrorists and those who support them. Is there a reason we're attacking this planet piecemeal? Wouldn't a planet-wide extermination from space be a lot less costly in terms of the lives of our own men?"

A heavy, awkward silence filled the room. Several seconds passed before Pehn-na'aq replied evenly, "Even if such a course of action were possible—and it is not, due to the Separatist Fleet's prsesence—the Republic would never undertake such a drastic action that would render a planet un-usable and possibly kill innocent civilians."

"The only civilians on Kettrun are terrorists," Anakin persisted. "Our own intel agencies say as much. Is it worth the lives of thousands of troopers to fight a ground battle, when we could end it in three or four massive blows? You'd only have to get past the Separatist ships a few times."

"That is not the way of the Republic," Pehn-na'qa said stonily. "The clone Army exists for this very purpose: to fight the war. We try to preserve as many lives—both clone and civilian—as possible—"

"We're talking about terrorists," Anakin interrupted.

"Despite what you may have read in the intel reports, there are likely to be non-combatants on Kettrun. Not every single person there can be a terrorist, and we must do everything we can to ensure they are not caught up in this fight. Using atmospheric weapons would destroy all life," Pehn said with a warning in his voice that he was not appreciative of this particular debate and what he perceived to be insubordination on the behalf of the young Jedi general.

"I'm thinking about the lives of my troops," Anakin stated boldly. "And maybe the only way you'll be able to chase the Separatists away from Kettrun is to make it uninhabitable—"

"Anakin!" Obiwan hissed.

"I appreciate your candor, General Skywalker," Pehn'na'qa said with finality. "We will proceed with the operation as planned."

Both Sector Six and Sixth Army blinked out of the holocon. But before the 808th disconnected, both Rex and Cody made a point of offering a greeting.

"Good to see you again, Snap," Cody said. "I see you're no longer with the Mudjumpers."

"You know how it is with us ARC troopers," Captain Snap replied. "Once we're wearing the pauldron, we're ripe for the picking. The 808th needed a new first-in-command, and I took over about two months ago." Snap regarded Cody through the static image. "What did they do, Commander? Strip you of your kit?"

It was Rex who answered good-naturedly. "The commander's never liked wearing all that stuff. He says it gets in the way."

"Weighs me down," Cody added with a grin. "Looks like we'll be seeing you soon."

Snap inclined his head to one side. "It's a bloodbath here, chaps," he said gravely. "Send as few as you can to get the job done."

Beside him, his Jedi General, Master Shyfa, a Lodarfin male with scales that shimmered like emeralds, added, "Choose wisely. This is no place for Shinies or the weak-hearted."

"We have only the best here," Rex replied.

"Second best," Snap quipped in return.

Cody nodded. "Second best. Hold on as long as you can."

"We have no other choice but to keep fighting," Master Shyfa. "But I fear General Skywalker may be correct. Even if you destroy the base, there is no guarantee the Separatists will abandon the fight. We fight—not to liberate a people—but to eliminate the terrorist threat being created here. The Separatists fight to destroy the Republic. To do that, they must destroy its soldiers. They will continue to fight us here whether the base is destroyed or not. To win this battle, the droid armies must be defeated. Otherwise, you will likely meet the same fate my own soldiers are meeting."

Obiwan, who'd not left the room but rather had moved to one corner to converse with Anakin, now, having overhead much of the conversation, entered into it. "We will do everything we can to carry out our mission. You may be right that the droid armies will keep fighting even after we take out the base; but the purpose it to eliminate terrorist training facilities. That is what we will do. Now, I think it's best if we all stand by and wait for the OPORD to come down."

There was a tacit agreement.

"Hang in there, Snap. It won't be long," Cody said as a manner of parting.

"I hope we meet again face-to-face, Commander."

No sooner had the 808th disconnected than a communication came through. The comm officer loaded it on the projector.

It was the operations order.

"General Kenobi, private communique coming to you on console B," the comm officer announced as the others gathered round to see what their new mission entailed.

Obiwan went to console B. There was an encrypted message from General Pehn-na'qa. It was direct and simple.

" _General Skywalker is not to be assigned to this mission."_

 **So, a little bow to the Jogan Fruit Cake in the Evil Intentions episode.**


	81. Chapter 80

_**Dear Reader, this is a fairly long chapter, setting the stage. There's a reference to the episode**_ **Sphere of Influence.** _ **And we see the return of some characters from earlier chapters. Enjoy! CS**_

Chapter 80 A Small Job

" _Plan: to bother about the best method of accomplishing an accidental result."_

 _The Devil's Dictionary_  
Ambrose Bierce

* * *

"I think a 10- or 12-man team can pull this off," Anakin announced as Obiwan rejoined him and the rest of the men gathered around the holo-projector, which was now showing the OPORD.

Cody added, "That's not including a four-man air crew to get them in and out."

"You can see here on the schematic, the camp is located in a remote, mountainous region, in the shallow valley between these two ridges. The only known vehicle approach route is through the canyon to the north. According to the intel report, 6th Sector dropped a pair of Pathfinders in two months ago to do some limited recon. They used the plain here to the south as the drop zone and cut up through the jungle. It's a bit lengthier than the northern approach, but it provides the best chance of an undetected arrival. The compound itself looks to be pretty big. There are five structures, all connected by these passageways. We could send two-man teams to each structure to set the explosives. We don't want too many troops running around. That increases the risk of them being seen and giving away the entire operation," Anakin went on, then turned to his captain.

Rex spoke up. "The base camp, outlined here in black, is roughly two hundred meters long and three hundred meters wide. It's surrounded by a combination of electrified walls and plasma barriers. There's a rampart that runs along the entire perimeter, and there are guards patrolling it. The main entrance to the camp is here on the northern wall, and there are two other secondary gates, here . . . and here. The recon team was only on the ground for six hours, so they only were able to recon up to four hundred meters from the camp in all directions. On the southern side, they detected no outlying observation posts and no activity at all, although there were some poorly marked trails, perhaps made by animals, perhaps not. They reported that the trails looked rarely used but that they could still indicate some kind of activity in the area. The east and west side of the camp have more of the same faint trails, but again, the jungle was mostly quiet. To the north are two watch towers – one roughly two hundred meters from the camp perimeter, the other about a half kilometer. They're located along the approach route and well-hidden in the canopy. There are four men on duty in each tower at all times. They're well-armed with blasters and rocket-propelled grenade launchers." He paused for a moment. "The northern approach route is a narrow, single-vehicle road. Unpaved, rutted, extremely rough. It's incapable of handling anything other than a small hover-type vehicle. The report says they didn't see much traffic on it. Mmm . . . no mines in the area or any activity that would suggest the placement of mines. They detected no overt activity in the jungle outside the base camp; however, it's reasonable to assume that training is conducted outside the camp and that they run patrols through the area."

"Did they report seeing any patrols?" Obiwan asked.

"No, Sir, but that doesn't signify," Rex replied. "They weren't on the ground for very long."

"A 10-or 12-man team, hm?" Obiwan said thoughtfully.

"It'll be easy to get a small team in and a lot easier to get them out," Anakin confirmed. "They can jump in like on Pylotta, and a gunship will be able to get low enough to get them out with ascension cables."

"It all sounds good," Obiwan stated. "Cody, Rex, carry on. Anakin, I need to talk to you for a minute."

The two Jedi walked out of the briefing room.

Obiwan had already been thinking about how he would finesse his way through a touchy subject. "We have to decide which, if either, of us go with them on this mission."

Anakin appeared somewhat taken aback by his comment. "I wasn't thinking either of us needed to go."

Obiwan's own speechless surprise prompted Anakin to continue.

"We're sending our two best officers," he said. "They're being detailed to the 6th to carry out a mission, so they'll have their own chain-of-command while they're on Kettrun. We don't know how long they'll be there, and our units might get called back to duty while they're gone. If we're handing over our first-in-commands, then _we_ need to be available in case shore leave is cut short." He smiled. "And it always is."

"Well, that was easy. I was afraid you were going to insist on going," Obiwan admitted.

"I know Rex will get the job done," Anakin replied. "Besides . . . he hates shore leave."

* * *

The shuttle was not scheduled to depart until 2200 hours the following day. That still left plenty of time to review and fine-tune the infiltration plan.

Between them, Rex and Cody had agreed that the 501st would provide the ground team, and the 212th the aircrew. Rex made quick work of defining his team. He needed four demolitions/explosives experts. That meant Pitch, whose knowledge of explosives was frightening in more ways than one. To round out the four, he chose CT-7104, otherwise known simply as Bads; CT-0820, Fuse; and CT-2662, Blackie. Rex then looked to the defensive and firepower requirements in the event the team was detected. Hardcase, Echo, Fives, and Denal. Bringing a medic was standard practice, and that was Kix. Rex felt it important to get Kix back in the swing of things as quickly as possible, to ensure his ordeal did not make him timid. The last opening was for Top. He'd considered taking Jesse, but if the battalion was called into action, General Skywalker would need Jesse to act as first-in-command in Rex's absence. While he knew that Jesse would not be happy about staying behind while the rest of his squad went on the mission, he also knew Jessie well enough to know that the lieutenant would accept the decision without complaint and comport himself professionally, as always.

For the aircrew, Cody chose BB, whose specialty was insertion and extraction. BB's usual co-pilot was none other than CT-8383, one of Cody's squad mates from ARC school. He now went by the moniker, Ten By – or Tenby – owing to a bit of pilot lingo in which Ten By meant "Loud and Clear" – much like "Five By" meant the same thing among ground-pounders. As jumpmaster for the mission, Cody selected one of his veterans, Strings. And load master/tech engineer was another experienced trooper, Coze, named after his odd pronunciation of the word "because".

The team members had all been recalled to GAR Headquarters where they had received their initial mission briefing. It was almost two o'clock in the morning before the meeting was dispersed with orders to reassemble at ten o'clock that same morning to continue planning.

As the men filed out of the room, Echo turned to Hardcase. "This was the best timing I could have asked for. It saved me a night out on the town with Fives."

Hardcase chuckled.

Leaving the room just behind them, BB piped up. "It really did ruin my night. I was having dinner with Commander Tano."

"Hup, that's fraternization, BB," Tenby warned with a teasing grin. "You'd better watch yourself."

BB smirked. "It's not fraternization. It's called being friendly. I enjoy her company."

"Well, don't enjoy it too much," Hardcase said. "She's a Jedi—well, a padawan—and you know all the rules they have about relationships and that all that osik."

From behind them, Cody's voice cut across their conversation. "She is also in a position of command over you men. This is not an appropriate discussion of a superior officer."

"Yes, Commander," BB replied. "I didn't mean to sound disrespectful of Commander Tano, Sir. I have a great regard for her."

"As do we all," Cody agreed. "Just keep military protocol in mind."

"Yes, Commander."

Cody and Rex slowed their pace, allowing the others to move out of earshot.

"I suppose it was bound to happen eventually," Cody said bluntly.

Rex looked at him with a questioning stare. "What?"

"The men looking at Commander Tano in, uh, a different light," Cody explained. "And maybe her looking at them in a different light, as well."

Rex knit his brows. "You're imagining things. The men see her as one of them, one of the boys—"

"Rex, I know even _you_ aren't that ignorant," Cody pushed back. "Commander Tano doesn't exactly look like a kid anymore, and she sure as hell doesn't look like one of the boys. When the men look at her now, they see an attractive woman. They see her rank, too; but that doesn't stop them from noticing the commander's . . . softer aspects. She's still young, but she's . . . an eyeful."

"Well, it doesn't matter," Rex replied dismissively. "Like you said, she's a padawan. She's forbidden from forming attachments."

"That hasn't stopped her forming an attachment to you," Cody pointed out.

"That's just a . . . passing infatuation," Rex replied.

"So, you _have_ noticed."

"Of course, I've noticed," Rex said, as if he wondered how anyone could ask such an inane question.

"And?"

"And what?"

"What do you intend to do about it?"

"Nothing," came the flat response. "She'll grow out of it. Besides, if I said anything to her, it might embarrass her and ruin our working relationship." A devious grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Besides, maybe BB can divert her attention."

"That's not the solution," Cody snipped.

"It works for me."

"Rex," Cody chastised his friend's flippancy.

"That was out of line, I know. Look, Cody, the men like Commander Tano. They respect her leadership, and you know as well as I do, it wasn't always that way. You know how they felt about her when she first arrived. But she's proven herself, and they'd do anything for her now. I don't want to screw that up." He sighed. "So, if she's got a little . . . thing for me, as long as she doesn't act on it, where's the problem?"

"The problem isn't yours or BB's or any other clone's," Cody said firmly. "The problem is Commander Tano's. She's not allowed to form attachments, Rex. Not to you or anyone else. But if people are encouraging her—or at the very least, not discouraging her—then that creates a problem."

"Commander," Rex began, and his use of Cody's title told the latter that the former was reaching his threshold for annoyance. "The padawan phase is supposed to figure out if the student is suited to be a Jedi. Whatever attachments or attractions she feels, she'll have to work that out for herself and decide whether or not being a Jedi is part of her future."

Cody, feeling a hint of irritation himself, dropped his patient probing for a more direct line of inquiry. "And what about your future?"

Rex glowered. "What?"

"When are you going to tell me what happened on Bertegad?"

Rex could have pretended to be insulted or offended at the question and the presumption behind it; but it was testimony to just how well Cody knew him that he'd had been able to discern whatever subtle changes that had marked the path.

"It . . . sounds like you already have an idea of what happened," he replied.

"Yes, but my idea wouldn't account for the change I've noticed in you," Cody stated.

"Change . . . for the better or the worse?" Rex inquired.

"I'm not quite sure," Cody admitted. He permitted a light-hearted expression to creep into his features. "Does change always have to be better or worse?"

"We're either moving towards something better or away from it," Rex replied.

"Don't be so simplistic," Cody rebuked.

"I'm a simple man—"

"Oh-ho!" Cody burst out in near-laughter. "Now, that is as far from the truth as Rigo is from Coruscant!"

This brought a slight but honest smile to Rex's face. "Maybe you're right."

"So, are you going to tell me what happened?"

Rex considered. "After this mission, if you still want to know, I'll tell you."

"Agreed."

And even though Rex was not fully convinced that it was a wise decision to open himself up to such scrutiny, still he trusted Cody. And who knew? It might do him good to impart his secret.

* * *

Rex looked at the chronometer in his headsup display.

Zero nine hundred hours.

General Skywalker had said to meet him on general docking platform 23E outside of Senator Amidala's private residence.

Here it was: 0900 hours.

And miraculously enough, General Skywalker was on time.

Or perhaps not so miraculous.

General Skywalker arrived with Senator Amidala. Ostensibly, he'd been assigned with the duty to escort her to and from the Senate – an added measure of protection in these days of assassinations, bombings, and poisonings. But today's escort duty had nothing to do with Senate business. Senator Amidala was making a day-trip to one of the nearby planets in what could only be labelled a shopping trip in preparation for her state dinner the following night. She was taking a sizeable entourage of service droids from her household, and she was looking forward to taking a day-break from the business of the Senate.

It seemed that whenever General Skywalker was teamed up with the Senator, his timeliness greatly improved. It could be that Senator Amidala was simply a more punctual person who demanded the same in those who served and protected her.

Or it could be what Rex already knew.

The two were lovers. But even that definition did not seem to do justice to what the captain had sensed and discerned between them. There was a connection that went far beyond any physical or sexual attraction. Rex had always simply attributed the unknown quality to the fact that General Skywalker was a Jedi and very strong with the Force, that possession of such a great power must somehow add an element of the metaphysical to the bond between them.

Rex had no doubt where the general had spent the night and who it was who had made sure he got out of the gate on time this morning.

"Good morning, General. Good morning, Senator," Rex greeted them as they exited their ship.

The smile on General Skywalker's face, coupled with the overflowing peace of his entire presence, told Rex that it had been a good night.

"Good morning, Rex," Anakin beamed back at him.

Padme inclined her head. "Captain."

"We still on for 1000 hours?" Anakin asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Thankfully, my escort duty doesn't include shopping trips," Anakin quipped, "So, I'll be there."

"We'd be glad to have your input, General," Rex replied. "But if you can't make it, don't worry about it. You know there's no better mission planner than Cody."

"That's true," Anakin agreed. "But don't worry. I'll be there. If I can't go on the mission with you, I can at least help with the planning."

Rex hesitated a moment. "Are you sure you want me to go on this mission, General?"

Anakin eyed his first-in-command with a knowing grin. "Are you trying to tell me you don't want to go?"

"Any action is better than no action," Rex replied gamely. "But you know I hate letting you out of my sight, General. You have a tendency to get in trouble when I'm not around."

"Now, that's the truth," Padme injected.

Anakin clapped Rex on his armored shoulder. "I appreciate the concern, Captain. You know we have this discussion every time we're sent on separate missions. I'll be just fine. You're the one heading into danger."

They began walking towards the Senator's ship, Rex falling slightly behind them – both out of respect for their positions, but also out of deference for their relationship.

"I don't like the situation on Pantora one bit," Padme began. She was referring to the Trade Federation blockade of the planet Pantora, a Republic-aligned planet. The blockade was initiated under the pretense, though partly true, that Pantora had not paid the money it owed the Trade Federation, but it seemed clear to Senator Amidala that the real crime of the Pantorans was their siding with the Republic. Padme was savvy enough in the political realm to know beyond the shadow of a doubt that the Trade Federation had Separatist leanings, that their only reason for maintaining a seat at the Republic table was their unfathomable greed for profit. The fact that Pantora was actually considering an alliance with the Separatists, was actually open to Count Dooku's entreaties, pained the senator in more ways than one. Not only was she a friend and mentor to Pantora's Senator Chuchi; but her own planet had gone through something similar. She was reminded of that now. "It reminds me far too much of Naboo's own scarred history."

"Well, that blockade wasn't that bad," Anakin opined with a lightness that Padme found beguiling, if not a bit lax for the circumstances. "It's the reason I met you, after all."

Padme blushed, fully conscious of the presence of her husband's first-in-command, holding at a discreet distance. She was not surprised that Anakin had spoken so clearly and certainly loud enough for Rex to hear every word. She'd known for quite some time that, if there were one person in the universe Anakin trusted, it was his captain. Sometimes, it seemed he trusted Rex even more than he trusted Obiwan – even more than he trusted her.

And why not? Rex was unflinchingly loyal. He never questioned orders. In fact, from what Padme had heard and, on several occasions, witnessed, Captain Rex was the first one to fan the flames of the dare-devil, risking-taking, borderline insane antics that Anakin very often espoused. He was that unusual combination of level-headedness infused with spirit and bravery; with just enough lunacy thrown in to make him one of—if not, the—most revered clone officers in the entire Grand Army.

Padme liked him very much. Very much, indeed—even if there were times when she felt that the captain had Anakin's ear to a greater degree than she did. Still, she trusted him as much as Anakin trusted him to keep their secret. Rex certainly was not a man to go about gossiping or spreading rumors.

"You certainly have a unique way of looking at things, Ani," she said with a shy smile.

Before Anakin could reply, Ahsoka approached from one of the smaller platforms.

"Senator Amidala! Master Skywalker!"

Padme became all business on the spot. "What is it, Ahsoka?"

"Someone has kidnapped Chairman Papanoida's daughters," the breathless padawan replied. She was referring to the leader of the Pantoran Assembly, Chairman Papanoida who had come to Coruscant in the hopes of convincing the Senate to take action to help his planet against the Separatist blockade. But he had not come alone. A leader who believed in teaching the workings of political craft to his children, he'd brought his son and two daughters with him.

Now, his daughters were missing.

Padme knit her brow and sighed. "I was afraid something like this would happen." She turned her gaze. "Anakin?"

"The Jedi can't get involved. This is a job for the local police," came the quick reply, making it clear that General Skywalker had little interest in getting involved in the situation.

But Padme was not one to give up at the first sign of resistance. "I'm not so sure local authorities can handle it. The Separatists are putting a lot of pressure on Pantora to join them. I'm afraid this blockade may give the Pantorans no other choice."

"Master, if the Jedi can't officially get involved, let me do this on my own. Senator Chuchi is a good friend of mine," Ahsoka volunteered anxiously.

"Eh-alright. With the Separatists involved, I guess it gives you cause to investigate. Go help Senator Chuchi but don't get in the way of the local authorities."

Ahsoka regarded him with questioning eyes. "Aren't you going to help?"

"I said the situation gives _you_ cause to investigate. Not us. I have to go back to the Jedi Temple and make sure the Council doesn't find out about your little expedition."

Anakin's skirting of the rules did not surprise Padme, but it did concern her. "Should you really proceed without the Council's approval?"

To this, Anakin grinned in satisfaction. "We do it all the time. Don't we, Snips?"

"Yep."

"Well, be careful, Ahsoka," Padme warned, then to Anakin with a wry inflection, "I still can't believe they let you teach."

"Hey, sometimes you have to do what it takes to get the job done – even if means side-stepping the rules," Anakin said. This time he turned to Rex for affirmation. "Isn't that right, Rex?"

"You'd never get an argument from me, Sir," Rex replied.

"That's why I like you, Captain," Anakin quipped.

Ahsoka, in a moment of boldness, spoke up. "Well, I know you hate shore leave, Rex, so maybe you'd like to join me in finding the chairman's daughters."

There was a moment of awkward silence.

Rex certainly wasn't going to say anything. It was General Skywalker's duty to keep Commander Tano – his padawan – informed on the battalion's activities.

"Ahsoka, Rex isn't going to be available," Anakin said haltingly. "He and Commander Cody are taking a small detail to Kettrun to take out a terrorist training camp."

Ahsoka's gaze went from Anakin to Rex and back again. "When did this tasking come down?" she asked, and it was clear from her voice and demeanor that she was unhappy about not knowing of the mission.

"Last night," Anakin replied. "I was going to tell you about it today."

"Well, I guess now would be a good time," came the terse reply.

For the next minute, Anakin explained the upcoming mission.

At its conclusion, Ahsoka volunteered right away. "Why don't you let me lead the mission, Master?"

"If any Jedi were going, it would be me, Ahsoka," Anakin replied. "But the decision's already been made. I think Rex and Cody are capable of handling this on their own."

"I know that, Master," Ahsoka replied, "But I could protect them—"

Anakin noticed the subtle change in Rex's expression at this statement, the idea that two of the GAR's finest officers needed protection, when, in fact, it was their duty to protect their Jedi officers. Never mind the fact that the Jedi always provided much appreciated protection to their troops; it just wasn't proper to speak of it.

"Ahsoka, there's no discussion on this," Anakin said firmly. "The decision is made. Besides, you volunteered to help find Chairman Papanoida's daughters. Do you want to go back on that?"

Ahsoka scowled. "I'd rather be with my men."

"So would I," Anakin replied. "But we all have to take orders and do what's best for the mission."

Ahsoka looked to Rex as if she were expecting—or at least, hoping—that he would speak up on her behalf and ask for her to accompany them on the mission.

Rex remained impassive and stone-faced.

"Well, it looks like I'm getting left out of all sorts of missions," she said, not even attempting to hide her bitterness. Then, with a strong note of sarcasm, she added, "But like you said, Master, the mission always comes first." She turned an almost accusatory eye to Rex. "A rule that even the best of us forget every now and then." A pointed pause. "Good luck on your mission, Captain."

With that, she returned to her speeder.

Anakin drew in a deep breath. "She's going to be mad at us for a while."

"She'll get over it, Sir," Rex replied. "Isn't it true that the Jedi don't hold grudges?"

"Yes, that's true."

Here, Padme spoke up. "You both forget one thing. She's not a Jedi yet."

* * *

Jesse stood on the hangar floor.

The rest of his squad mates stood at the base of the long-range shuttle's boarding ramp.

"You had better take care of them," he warned, looking pointedly at Top.

"You know I will," came the earnest reply. "I wish you were coming with us."

"Don't you think it's more likely that we should be the ones to _take care of him_?" Hardcase teased, jabbing an elbow into Top's armored side.

"That goes without saying," Jesse smiled.

Rex, coming up behind Jesse, put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll look after _all_ of them. Okay, everyone, get in place. Our window closes in less than three minutes."

"Rex!"

Rex turned to see General Skywalker hurrying across the hangar floor. After that morning's planning meeting, Rex had not expected to see the general again until after the mission was complete. They'd gone over all the details of the incursion, including numerous contingencies, and concluded with a solid plan in place. The general had then gone on to other duties. There was no reason to expect him to come see the team off.

But that's what he was doing.

"General Skywalker," Rex greeted him. "Are you coming with us?"

"I wish I were," Anakin replied. "No, I just came to wish you all good luck. Is everyone onboard?"

"Yes, General."

Anakin strode past him up the ramp and into the passenger bay where the infiltration party was taking their seats. Knowing that the pilots were busy doing pre-flight, he activated the ship-wide intercom.

"I want to wish you all good luck," he stated. "You're going into a dangerous situation. This is a critical mission. I know you will all do your jobs. I want to see all of you come back safely." He saw the subtle nods of affirmation from the men before him. "May the Force be with you."

As he turned to leave, he gave Rex a hard look. Without account, he felt a swell of foreboding – indistinct as to meaning yet familiar enough in content. It was the same sort of premonition he'd felt with regard to his mother shortly before her death at the hands of the Tusken Raiders. Yet, this fleeting spasm of dread had no face associated with it. The sense of pain was murky but unmistakable; only the sufferer and the conditions were obscured. Still, Anakin suddenly feared for his captain.

"Be alert, Rex," Anakin said quietly. "And . . . stay close to Cody."

"Yes, General."

Anakin swept his gaze one more time over the assembled team, now in their seats and ready to depart.

No, they didn't engender in him the same mysterious response as when he looked at Rex. And now, when he turned to Rex one last time . . . the feeling was gone.

As if it had never happened.

* * *

No sooner had the shuttle touched down in the Portica's main hangar than Cody and Rex were met by members of General Medge's staff and whisked off to a briefing room, while the rest of the team waited in one of the hangar's adjacent troop lounges.

Upon entering the briefing room, Cody was pleased to see Captain Snap at the table and went immediately to greet him.

"It seems like just yesterday we were at ARC training," Snap said with a warm smile to accompany his handshake. Looking past Cody to where Rex stood, he added, "I'll bet it's taking all your effort just to keep this guy on the straight and narrow."

Cody chuckled. "He's not quite the handful he was in ARC training, but he's still a challenge." A pause. "Has the situation changed since our last holocon?"

Snap appeared a bit hesitant. "The situation itself isn't much changed. But . . . there has been a change in plans."

"Oh?"

Snap moved closer to his two former ARC mates and lowered his voice. "Padawan Commander Ki'weya is being given operational command of your detail."

Both Rex and Cody were stunned, but only Rex verbalized his shock. "What?!"

"The leadership decided it would be a good idea for a Jedi—or, in this case, a padawan—to lead the mission," Snap replied.

"This is _our_ mission. We were tasked specifically to do this," Rex fumed.

Cody put a hand on Rex's arm as a sign to calm down. The commander could easily understand the wisdom of wanting someone with Force abilities on such a mission, and Ki'weya, one of several padawans serving in the ranks of the Sixth Army, was as good a choice as any. He might even be a cut better, given that he'd been on Kettrun since the invasion had started and probably had a better lay of the land than anyone coming in on detail.

"We'll be happy to work with him," Cody said with all the deference to rank and structure that was expected of a man in his position.

Snap's response, however, was not promising. "Um, I doubt that very much."

"Why is that?"

Snap nodded towards the door. "Here he comes now. You'll see what I mean."

Padawan Ki'weya was an Ustrayan – humanoid in most aspects, though Ustrayan anatomy typically exhibited an over-sized bulbous cranium to house an over-sized brain, eight digits on each hand and foot, reptilian-like eyes that glittered in the light, and what was commonly accepted to be the remnants of a dorsal fin, long in the process of disappearance through evolution.

They were, as a race, tall and muscular, extraordinarily fit – having bred the culture-determined undesirable traits out of their gene pool centuries ago—and undeniably beautiful in the eye of another human beholder.

Among them, there had never been a Jedi. Ki'weya was the first padawan to come from Ustraya. He felt the significance of that calling and the attendant expectations. His master, Jedi Master Shyfa, also understood the importance of Ki'weya's vocation as seen from the eyes of his people, for he, too, as a Lodarfin, was the only Jedi from among his people. But that was where the similarities between master and pupil ended.

Master Shyfa was humble, modest, and as a general, devoted to the men he led. Ki'weya was , by nature, boisterous, exceedingly confident, and still at a stage of trying to prove not only his suitability to be a Jedi, but his worth as an indispensable part of any team on which he served. Master Shyfa had made considerable progress in breaking down some of his padawan's un-Jedi-like characteristics; but it was, he admitted in the silence of his own thoughts, a project that would require a lot of time and patience, the war's intervention doing little to help the situation along.

"Come on," Snap said. "I'll introduce you."

But before the introductions could be made, the briefing began. And it became abundantly clear, in short order, why Ki'weya had been included in the mission. It wasn't simply for his Force abilities. Not at all. Ki'weya had been sent earlier, while Rex and Cody were enroute, to conduct a one-man reconnaissance of the compound, much more detailed than previous recon missions. While he'd not entered the place, he'd gotten within twenty meters in a number of spots along the perimeter, and he had good intel as a result.

Still, it seemed to Cody that Ki'weya should be included as a team member, not the team leader. But it wasn't his place to protest. Besides, Cody had a way of still managing to function as leader by steering the decisions of those around him. He would simply have to use the same tactics here.

At the briefing's conclusion, Snap presented his offer once more to introduce them.

They approached Ki'weya, who stood at least thirty centimeters taller than them and was busily pouring over figures on his HOPO.

"Commander Ki'weya, these are the two men who will be commanding the detail you'll be leading."

Both Rex and Cody noticed the carefully chosen words Snap had used, as if to press home to the padawan that there was more than one command position in this mission.

Ki'weya looked up from his figures to acknowledge the newcomers.

Cody gave a nod of introduction, simply stating his name. "Cody. And this is Rex."

Ki'weya nodded once. "Commander Ki'weya."

 _Commander. Ah._ Clearly, there would be no familiarity here. But that wasn't uncommon. Jedi tended to be formal in their manner of address and recognition of titles. And this was, after all, the military.

There was a moment when no one spoke, and then Captain Snap filled the void. "I was at ARC training with the two of them—"

"Yes, you mentioned that before," Ki'weya interrupted. "With glowing reviews, I might add. But I would have known of them both anyway. Your names are . . . associated with feats of greatness throughout the grand Army. I suppose that is to be expected, given your own Jedi generals."

"Thank you, Commander," Cody replied. "We'll try to do the same for you."

"Mm," came the rather indifferent reply. "Well, let's just make sure you do better for me than you did on Pylotta. Rather sloppy affair, wasn't it?"

Before Cody could give a diplomatic response, Rex dove in with his hallmark candor. "Rather successful, too, I would say."

"I suppose that depends on how you define success," the padawan said, leading the trio out into the corridor. "I've got an office set aside down this way." He resumed with, "We can never leave Pylotta, not after setting the population at odds with each other. If our forces were to pull out, that space port would fall right back into Separatist hands. The situation is still highly unstable and likely to remain that way for the duration of the war. A limited assault followed by humanitarian assistance would have gone a long way towards securing the total population's support."

"That may be true, Commander," Cody replied, "But the decision to launch a full-blown assault and leave a delegation behind wasn't made by the clones who carried out the attack. Our troops did what they were sent there to do. And they did it successfully."

"Again, that all depends on your definition of success."

Rex, still maintaining his military bearing, spoke up. "I didn't know you were such an expert on military planning, Padawan." Both Cody and Snap recognized the hint of challenge and sarcasm in his voice; but it went completely unnoticed by Ki'weya.

"I'm an expert at many things, Captain, military planning among them," came the reply.

They came to Ki'weya's provisional office; and here, the padawan opened a holomap of the entire area. "I imagine this mission will be much easier than the one on Pylotta," the Ustrayan began. "There's only one target, the number of enemy might be more but estimates of that number are more accurate based on my reconnaissance, and the mission is strictly in-and-out."

Rex and Cody listened but without much indication of agreement. One thing they had learned over the course of the war was that the tendency to underestimate the danger and difficulty of a situation accounted for the vast majority of failures, great and small.

"It was remarkable how easily I got in close to the place. They're not overly vigilant. A bit too confident and complacent, I would say," the padawan explained.

"Yeah, there's nothing like over-confidence to drive the first nail in the coffin," Rex said, absorbing Cody's subtle jab in the ribs.

Again, Ki'weya was completely oblivious to the rhetorical device.

Cody pursued a more productive mode of comment. "You were a one-man team, Commander. And you're a Padawan with all the skills that entails. This is a twelve-man—now, thirteen-man team. With the aircrew, we're at seventeen. I think that's much easier to detect than a lone padawan."

"Not if it's done right."

Rex bit his tongue at this easy dismissal of Cody's logical conclusion.

At this point, Ki'weya turned to Captain Snap. "Captain, as you are not part of this mission, I have to ask you to leave the room."

"Yes, Commander." Snap looked to his fellow troopers. "Good luck," he said with an inflection that begged no clarification.

The moment Snap was gone, Ki'weya went on with his plan. "This is a computer-enhanced image of the area we'll be going into. Here you can see the compound." He then went over much of the same information Rex and Cody had received in their previous briefings.

During a pause in the padawan's report, Cody broke in with a question. "Do we have any actual pictures or holo's of what it looks like beneath those trees?"

Ki'weya raised his eyes without raising his head, and the expression on his face was one of impatience. "No, we don't," he said flatly. "But from my own personal recollections, I can tell you it's thick jungle with interwoven undergrowth."

"Is it something we'll need to hack our way through?" Rex asked.

"I didn't have to," came the rather snide response. Before either clone could further pursue the issue, Ki'weya continued. "This is what I labeled the East Ridge, for obvious reasons—" which he then went ahead to state "—it's on the east side of the compound. This then, is, of course, the West Ridge. The valley in between them leads out onto these plains, which is what I've recommended as the drop zone. It's about a two-mile jaunt from the mouth of the valley to the compound perimeter. With the terrain and vegetation, it would your detail no more than one hour."

"One hour? To go two miles through the kind of jungle you're describing? If you'll excuse me for saying so, that sounds rather optimistic, Commander," Rex put forth.

"One hour, Captain," Ki'weya stated again with emphasis. "But I'll be there to guide you in, so it may take less."

Cody made a furtive glance at Rex. He could already see the storm clouds forming over the stretch of holographic imagery that separated the two officers from the padawan, and Rex had that look on his face that Cody had seen there so many times before. A stubborn possessiveness.

In an attempt to head off trouble, Cody dove in. "What's the terrain like on the drop zone, Commander?"

Ki'weya visually conveyed his displeasure at being interrupted yet once again, not to mention his condescension at the perceived idiocy of the question.

"It's a plain," he replied. "It's flat."

"Is that all we know?" Rex asked, tight-lipped.

"What else do you need to know, Captain?"

"Well, considering we're going to be parachuting onto it, I thought we might like to know what we're dropping into? Are there any trees? Is the ground rough or smooth? Rocky or loose? Sand or dirt? Packed or—"

Ki'weya heave an exasperated sigh. "There are a few low scrub-like trees. It's not rocky or pitted. It's loose dirt, and at this time of year, it's covered with waist-high, very dry grass that can slice your skin if you're not covered—which shouldn't be a problem for you and your men, given your armor. It can also go up in flames at the snap of a finger, which would give everything away."

"Animals?"

"Animals?" Ki'weya stood with his mouth open. "You mean, wild animals?"

"Any animals," Rex replied. "I'd hate to land in the middle of a herd of gocbins or retterbeasts or any other animal capable of trampling us to bits."

"I don't even know what those creatures are—"

"They were part of the research we did in preparing for this mission," Cody put forth before Rex could follow up with some expression of disgust. "Again, we clones don't have the . . . abilities that the Jedi do; and we thought we were going to be without a Jedi. It was important for us to look up what sorts of creatures we might be dealing with."

This explanation seemed to pass muster, though Ki'weya still appeared annoyed by the entire subject. However, he answered evenly enough, "I don't know if there are any animals in the area. I didn't encounter any. It really isn't anything I'm concerned about. But I'm sure whatever research you did on your own would have told you what animals are commonplace on the plains." A pause. "Now, to continue . . . once we've moved off the plains, we'll head for the East Ridge. As you can see, the tree line only reaches about a quarter of the distance up the ridge. Right below the tree line, the jungle thins out significantly, and the terrain is more rocky and less difficult to get through, though perhaps a bit more treacherous. Still, it's the quickest way. Above the tree line, the ridge is sheer and rocky—"

"Treacherous?" Rex interrupted. "How so?"

"The ground is very rocky. Large, loose rocks. Tripping and falling hazards." A strange smile twinkled briefly across the padawan's face, then blinked out. "Rock slides. But it's still faster than fighting our way through the jungle on the valley floor." A pause. "Now, as to team composition—"

"We've already determined team composition," Cody stated.

"Yes, well, I'm not sure your . . . _determinations_ are what the job truly requires—"

Cody jumped in before Rex could get a word off.

"I'm sure we could discuss your recommendations with General Shyfa and General Medge," he said, reluctantly employing the threat of the ranking officers against the padawan. "We put together this team based on a tasking given to us by Sector 6 and Sixth Army. We appreciate your input, Commander, and we're ready to work with you; but rather than simply tell us what your plan is, you might want to consider the planning we've already done and incorporate the two together."

Ki'weya stared at him a moment. "Commander . . . _Cody_ , I think there's a misunderstanding here. Perhaps General Pehna-qa didn't make it clear earlier, but you and your men will be operating under my direction."

"Yes, he made that very clear," Cody replied.

"Then I don't understand the disconnect between us."

"The disconnect is that we're supposed to be a team," Cody replied. "And my men will feel a lot better if they know that their officers had some say in the decisions being made. I understand your recon mission was a one-man effort; but this time you've got other men you're responsible for." A pause. "Other men that Captain Rex and I are responsible for."

It seemed for a moment that the padawan would simply continue with his own plans. But then he gave a dramatic exhalation. "Very well. Show me the work you've done."

Cody glanced at Rex, saw the expression there, and knew it was going to be a long night.


	82. Chapter 81

_**Dear Reader, Sorry it took me so long to get this one up. I had a lot of real life things intervene. I also want to thank all the reviewers for the last chapter. I forgot to do that when I originally posted this chapter, and I try to make a point of putting my appreciation into my 'forewords'. Thanks to Ms CT-782, The Unnamed Guest, Sued, LLTC, Shadow Wanderer, Kat, Reader 7567, and the other anonymous guests. It really makes me feel very good when I see a review. You're all very kind! I hope you enjoy. Peace, CS**_

Chapter 81 Plans and Reality

" _No battle plan survives contact with the enemy."_

Helmuth Karl Bernhard Graf von Melthe, German Field Marshal

They were over the drop zone.

Once again, Rex found himself facing a darkness that stretched away into eternity. It was not lost on him that a little more than six weeks ago he had done this very same thing, a night jump into the unfamiliar terrain of Pylotta, although the mission this time was not at all similar. That mission seemed a lifetime ago, and so much had happened in the intervening weeks . . . none of which he could allow into his thoughts at the moment.

His fall through the night came to a calculated halt seven hundred meters above the ground as he pressed the release on his gauntlet and the streamer of gray fibro-silk carried him the rest of the way in silence.

Kettrun's single moon showed in its fullness, unobscured by cloud and reflecting a pale light down onto the plain. Even so, it was difficult to make out features on the rapidly approach surface. Rex kept expecting a tree to loom up out of the darkness or a ditch or crevice to suddenly open up, threatening an ankle or knee with serious injury. He activated his night vision, which, while helpful, still could not provide the degree of detail Rex would have liked.

But no misfortunes befell him or any other members of the team and within minutes, everyone was safely on the ground, parachutes gathered and hidden away. The aircrew, minus Cody who had gone down with the ground team, had returned to their hiding place, shadowing a low orbit satellite. They would return when signaled for the pickup.

Commander Ki'weya motioned the team together. "That was quite exhilarating," he said, sounding genuinely impressed. "I've never done a free jump from that altitude. Amazing." Then, he became all business, leading the men through the razor-sharp grass of the plain towards the valley, which lay in a misty shroud between two dark, towering masses, the east and west ridges. An eerie quiet reigned in this place. No sounds of birds or other animals. No sounds of distant traffic of any kind. Not even a breeze to rustle the grass or the scattered trees. It made the noises generated by the movement of the thirteen men sound all the louder.

Shortly before coming off the plain, they came upon several clusters of trees.

"If anyone gets separated, make your way back to this spot," Cody ordered. "It's going to be chaotic when those charges go off. Our planned escape routes might not be available. So, wherever you end up, try to get back to this place."

They left the plain and entered the thick, entangling undergrowth of the valley. Overhead the canopy of trees was so thick that not even a single star could be glimpsed through the intertwined branches. Here, in the dense jungle, the silence of the plains gave way to the calls of night creatures and the sounds of scurrying animals.

Behind Hardcase, Denal quipped in a guarded voice. "I keep expecting some wild animal to land on my shoulders."

"Better yours than mine," Hardcase replied with an invisible smile.

They had gone less than a quarter-mile into the woods and had just begun angling east towards the ridge and its easier passage when Rex, leading the way, held up his hand, and all movement ceased.

Cody appeared beside him. "Well, this is unexpected."

"These aren't exactly what the recon team described," Rex stated. "They reported seeing _faint_ trails."

"And Commander Ki'weya didn't mention seeing these on his reconnaissance," Cody added.

At that moment, the padawan joined them. "Why are we stopping?"

"This trail, Commander," Rex replied.

"What about it?"

"You didn't mention seeing any trails," Rex informed him.

"I don't remember seeing any," came the curt answer.

"Isn't this the way you came when you did your recon only a few days ago?" Cody inquired.

"It's not exactly the same route, but very close to it. I saw no need to correct the captain's direction one or two degrees," Ki'weya replied.

Cody went on. "The earlier recons reported some faint trails, but look at this, Commander. It's well-worn. It's too well-trod to be from animals. This trail is man-made, and it looks like it's used often."

"And supposedly there's no indigenous population in the area," Rex said, setting the conditions.

And Cody finished the conclusion. "Which leaves our friends over a two kilometers away."

"An approach route?" Rex wondered out loud.

"Or a patrol route," Cody added thoughtfully

"I wonder how far out their patrols go."

Ki'weya shook his head impatiently. "We know they _might_ go this far out, so we need to increase our vigilance. We need to press on."

Rex scowled beneath his helmet. "I think we'd do well to determine how far out their patrol routes go. There may be more paths behind us, from the direction we just came, and we may have missed them. If these are patrol routes, we might have a hard time getting back to the extraction point. And it could put the aircrew at greater risk."

"Captain, our mission isn't to chase our tails down every suspicious path we find," Ki'weya said pointedly. "We have to make it up onto the ridge so we can pick up the speed and get there before we run out of darkness. Not only that, but we have no one to spare to go traipsing through the woods looking for possibilities that probably don't exist."

Rex ignored him. "Echo. Kix. Get up here. I want you two to do a limited recon to see where this trail leads and if there are others. It's 0222 right now. I'll radio for a report at 0300. That's ten minutes before we should be entering the compound, and right before we go dark. If you see anyone, do everything you can to stay hidden. If they detect you, it will blow the whole thing."

"Yes, Sir," the two replied in unison, then Echo inquired, "I'm supposed to go in with Bads. Who's going to take my place?"

"Commander Cody and I will take care of that," Rex replied. "Everyone. Switch to frequency 80.297, encryption mode."

"Captain, the frequency switch and encryption aren't necessary until we reach the crixa," Ki'weya pointed out, referring to a pre-designated location nearer to the compound.

"Commander, I think it's a good idea to switch now, in case we run into trouble," Cody interjected, hoping to preempt argument. "I can let the extraction team know to switch now as well."

The padawan gave a careless shrug. "Do as you please."

As Echo and Kix broke off, Rex reached out and snagged Kix's elbow, causing both men to stop. He drew close and spoke with quiet fierceness. "I don't have a good feeling about any of this. Watch yourselves."

The two men nodded. They were starting to share the same sense of uneasiness as their captain.

* * *

The planet was in chaos _._

" _Just what it deserves. Any planet that welcomes and protects terrorists, provides them material support and training – such a planet deserves the chaos it's brought upon itself."_ A moment of focused concentration. _"They've landed. They're already underway. That was fast."_

Anakin rarely meditated. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the practice. It's just that he was much more a man of action. Obiwan had taught him, with a fair degree of success, the methods of quieting his mind in an attempt at being one with the Force, using it to see events – past, present, and even sometimes the future. He'd taught him how to reach out in the Force to find those whom he cared about, with whom he had a connection.

And while it was seldom that Anakin found much peace in the Force, he had grown quite adept at harnessing its powers to conduct the tasks – seeking, finding, and touching other souls in the metaphysical realm of the Force.

The fact that he'd developed a connection with Rex almost immediately upon their first meeting was not accidental. Despite the awkwardness of the circumstances of that first meeting—a story for another time—Anakin had felt an intrinsic bond with the man who had been appointed his first-in-command. It was a bond of trust, the sense of being a kindred spirit, and Anakin had done everything in his power to strengthen that sense of unity. The superior-subordinate relationship had given way, over the months, to a genuine admiration and affection on the general's part – an admiration and affection well-returned.

It happened quite often that Anakin could sense not only Rex's presence, but his internal mindset, even at considerable distances. It wasn't any sort of mind-reading ability; it was more like hearing voices through water, seeing images through stained glass. If he concentrated, he could pick up on strong emotions even when his captain was nowhere in the immediate vicinity.

Yet, these obscure sensings were not the same thing as using the Force to see and foretell events.

As Anakin engaged in one of his rare meditative exercises—done with the sole purpose of finding out how things were going on Kettrun after the odd moment he'd had with Rex on the shuttle—he could see with a decent amount of clarity, Rex and Cody's detail moving through heavy undergrowth in a steam-filled night jungle. There was someone else with them, but he could not quite make out the figure.

What he could sense was his captain's irritation. No cause for alarm, but certainly enough to spark Anakin's curiosity.

And then the edges of the image in his mind's eye began to dissipate and become indistinct. The entire picture was reforming . . .

. . . a desert canyon, brown and tan and rocky and ridged . . .

" _We have to go, Anakin!"_ Obiwan's voice.

" _Come on! COME ON!"_ Anakin recognized his own voice. _"Hurry up, trooper!"_

" _We have to go NOW!"_ Obiwan insisted.

" _Pilot, stay in place!"_ Anakin again.

" _Holding position, Sir,"_ came a reply that, while a shout, was amazingly calm in the midst of all the desperation. Was it Three Point? BB? Wingnut? Anakin couldn't tell.

Obiwan's voice cut through the ruckus _. "Belay that order! Pilot, get us out of here—"_

Anakin's voice rose anxiously _. "We can get a few more! We can't leave—"_

A loud explosion jolted Anakin's eyes open.

Only there had been no explosion – not here, not in this place.

Not in this time.

* * *

The lower slope of the east ridge was steeper than imagined, and the trudge up to it belabored by tangled vine vines, thorny creepers, and muddy pools that threatened to suck down anyone unfortunate enough to step into the mire. This was not the route Rex or Cody would have chosen; and why Commander Ki'weya had insisted upon going up to tree line from the valley floor versus directly from the plateau was unfathomable to the clones. Still, the padawan was the mission commander, and the going along the upper levels of the ridge should prove progressively easier. But how many unnecessary minutes was this route adding to their approach?

As expected, nearer to the tree line, the undergrowth thinned out, and here, Ki'weya turned north and led the group along the ridge just below the tree line. Another kilometer and they would be in a position for turning left and heading back down into the valley on a line directly to the camp.

Rex now gave his lead position over to Ki'weya, who seemed to perhaps recognize that they were not making progress at the rate he had projected. The padawan's superior knowledge of the terrain might be a boon in the overall picture, but it had not served them well thus far.

And to own the truth, Rex was not so worried about running into the enemy as much as he was worried about Ki'weya leading them over a cliff or the like, forgetting that clones had limitations that Jedi—even Jedi in training—did not.

His thoughts were focused in this ungracious direction when he felt a tug on his elbow. He turned to see Top behind him.

"Captain, it looks like another pathway down there," the lieutenant announced.

Rex followed his gaze and could make out a clear line running through the jungle below them. "You're right," he acknowledged. "I don't much like the look of this. I think there's a lot more activity outside the camp than we thought." He sidled up to Ki'weya. "There's another trail just below us."

"Noted," was all the response he received. Ki'weya was clearly focused on a single design, and that was reaching the camp.

Cody, who had heard the exchange, chimed in, "Don't you think it might be a good idea for us to move a little higher, away from the pathway?"

"Commander, there are trails all along these upper levels," Ki'weya replied, not slowing his pace.

Rex and Cody both halted and exchanged concealed, befuddled glares.

Sensing that his detail had stopped moving, Ki'weya turned to face them. "What's wrong? Why are you stopping?"

"Commander, you said you didn't see any trails," Cody reminded him.

"I didn't see any trails in the valley," Ki'weya qualified. "Of course, there are trails up here. It's much easier going."

"That would have been good information to know," Cody pointed out, and Rex could hear in his voice, that even cool, professional Cody had just had his anger notched up a mark.

"It would have made no difference to the route or course of action," Ki'weya replied.

"It can make a huge difference if someone is out on these trails and sees us—" Rex began.

"Which is why we are not taking the trails, Captain," Ki'weya stated firmly.

"But we're within sight of them. And if we can see them, that means that anyone traveling on them can see us," Cody said with equal firmness.

"There are no other acceptable options," Ki'weya said. "We can go back down onto the valley floor and spend the rest of the night cutting our way through. Or we can stay up here and actually make up lost time and keep to the schedule." He sounded as if he had finished, but then he added with a degree of poorly disguised disgust. "Trails are of no concern to me. I can conceal myself from anyone who might come along. Unfortunately, you soldiers aren't able to move with the same level of stealth. So, the faster we get off the ridge altogether, the better it will be."

He moved off without waiting for a reply.

Rex turned to Cody. "This is crazy," he said in a low voice. "He's supposed to be leading this mission, but he's acting as if we're not even here. And he lied to us. He knew there were trails all along."

"Maybe so, but he's going to need us when we get to the compound," Cody replied. "He can't set those charges himself."

"I won't be surprised if he tries," Rex snarled.

"Just . . . let's stay focused," Cody said calmly. "He may be a padawan, but I don't think he's got a lot of experience to fall back on. We need to make sure he doesn't lead us into trouble."

* * *

Kix cursed with every word he knew in the silence of his own thoughts. But out loud, he limited himself to, "Fek and all, this is not good."

"This explains the nature of the trails," Echo whispered. "They're definitely man-made."

The two men were hunkered down, concealed behind a thick tangle of undergrowth. Slightly below them and through about forty meters of thick jungle was the camp.

From the time they had left the rest of the group, the two men had swept rapidly up the valley, following the trail but keeping just within the jungle to either side in order to stay concealed. They'd had no idea that they would reach the camp first, but the trail had led them straight to it. Upon their arrival, they'd spent several minutes in silent observation; and what they had seen did not bode well.

Already, they'd seen groups of men coming and going from within the walls, taking to the trails – apparently training trails. That meant the rest of the team could be in danger of exposure.

Even at this moment, nearly two dozen men in para-military uniforms were emerging from the lowered plasma gate.

Echo waited for the group to disappear from sight before radioing in. "CT-7567, this is CT-1409."

There was a moment of silence before Rex's voice came back over the comm. "CT-1409, report."

"The trails are man-made. We followed one of them and it led us directly to the camp. We're there now, and we've seen several groups of terrorists coming and going from the camp. They're using the trails – we think they're training paths, but they could be running patrols. They're all carrying firearms, but we couldn't determine the type."

"Copy that. Stand by," Rex replied. Nearly half a minute passed before his voice came back over the comm. "Begin reconnoitering the route back to the extraction point. If there are patrols out there, we don't want to run into them on our way out of here. We should be at the crixa in a few minutes. The time table stands."

"Copy, Sir."

Echo looked at Kix. "Looks like we're on our way back out."

* * *

"This is where we split into our teams," Rex stated.

They had come to the crixa.

" _No thanks to the padawan,"_ Rex thought with anger. But now his men were in their element. This was the task they had trained for, and since Ki'weya could not be with four teams at once, Rex was determined to shunt him into the least obstructive role possible.

"I'll go in with Bads," the captain went on. Then he turned pointedly. "Cody, you and Top stay here at the Crixa with Commander Ki'weya."

"They may stay here, but I am not," the padawan said.

"Commander, we've already identified the teams," Rex replied. "Two men on each team. Any more than that is unnecessary and risks detection."

Cody added, "You knew this before we set out, Commander. If you objected to our plan, you didn't say so during the briefing."

"Plans change, Commander Cody," Ki'weya said.

Rex had been pushed as far as he was willing to permit. "We have four sets of explosives. We have four teams. There is no mission for _you_ to carry out."

"I didn't say I was going in with any of the teams," Ki'weya pointed out.

"Then why go in at all?" Cody asked.

"I have my own mission," the padawan replied. "Don't worry, gentlemen. It won't interfere with yours."

Alarms began going off in Rex's head, but Cody was calm. Instead of furthering any accusations or deriding the padawan for his secrecy, he was direct and simple. "You need to tell us what it is."

"I can't do that, Commander," Ki'weya replied. "You just have to trust me."

Rex decided he could be pragmatic, and before Cody could respond, he ventured forth with, "I'll trust you." He motioned to Top, who'd been standing a few meters away, listening inconspicuously. "Top, get over here." Once more he turned toward the padawan. "Top will go with you. I trust Top, and if he's with you, I'll trust you."

"An escort isn't necessary and would only slow me down—"

"Take it or leave it," Rex interrupted. "It's the only thing we're offering. You take his protection willingly, or you take it unwillingly. Either way, he's going with you."

Ki'weya could hardly be bothered with argument. From his standpoint, the clone escort wouldn't be able to keep up with him anyway. He would outdistance him from the very start and be able to carry out his mission singlehandedly. "Very well. If you insist," came his false capitulation. "I will meet you at the rendez-vous at the appointed time." With that, he looked at Top with a show of false indulgence. "Try to keep up. Let's go."

Before setting off behind the padawan, Top gave Rex a nod. It was a silent acknowledgment that he understood the true nature of his task, which was not so much to protect the Ki'weya as it was to make sure the padawan did not endanger their mission while carrying out his own.

Rex watched the two disappear into the jungle.

"Top will stay on him," he said with surety. "And we need to stay on top of our job." He waved the team to gather close. "It's 0308. You all know how much time you have. Pass back through Commander Cody on your way to the extraction point. Remember, once you've gone dark, do not break radio silence unless it's to sound an alarm."

The men nodded curtly.

"Let's get it done, boys."

* * *

"How'd I get stuck with you again?" Pitch said in a barely audible voice as he and Fives moved through the last hundred meters of jungle towards the wall. "Last time we teamed up, you got me in big trouble with the captain."

Fives grinned invisibly. "We both took a chance. We may have gotten chewed out for it, but we did discover those consoles. Maybe we'll discover something else this time."

"I'm not looking to discover anything," Pitch replied. "There's no room for sight-seeing on this mission, Fives. It's get in, set the explosives, and get out."

"I know that," Fives replied with a bit of gamesmanship. "But you never know what might jump in your path."

"You might be an ARC trooper now, but you're still a corporal, and I'm a staff sergeant. I'm calling the shots," Pitch replied. "No rubbish this time. And we're at the go-dark point. Radio silence from here on in."

Radio silence was not the same as full silence. The two men could still speak to each other, just not using their helmets' comm systems.

Less than a minute later, they were crouched down in the thick brush, not two meters away from a plasma wall, pulsating blue-white in the darkness. There were no signs of any guards or patrols. The two crossed quickly the open space. Pitched dropped to one knee, removed a device from his belt, and carefully placed it at the base of the wall. Within five seconds, the device had run a diagnostic on the plasma and calibrated a resistance that would allow the clones to create an opening without disturbing the wall's spatial profile. A nifty piece of technology only recently introduced into service. In other words, the device allowed the clones to penetrate the wall undetected.

They passed through and closed the opening.

Their objective stood about fifty yards across a stretch of weed-choked, partially graveled and now overgrown open ground with multiple piles of trash rising up like bizarre monuments to waste. Old, broken chairs-wooden and metal; tables, cardboard boxes, lamps, beds and bedding . . . even piles of food and other organic matter.

It was like crossing an obstacle course of the discarded.

But it provided excellent cover, and the clones made their crossing quickly and without incident.

The next hurdle . . . entering the building unseen. Placing explosives on the outside of the structure would not do the trick. They had to get inside to the location of the weakest structural integrity.

Pitch had studied the images of the building's exterior structure, memorizing and analyzing every detail until he could not fit in one more jot of information. From examination of the exterior, he could make some educated guesses about the interior.

" _Exterior explosives will only blow a hole in the wall,"_ he'd explained at the planning briefing. _If we want to make the place unusable, we'll need to set some CB2 repro caps inside the building. That'll not only take out the structure, but also anyone inside or within thirty meters outside."_

" _Yes, that would work,"_ Bads had agreed _. "But the problem with repro caps is that_ we _have to get out of there in time not to get caught up in the repro's."_

" _We'll remote detonate them long after we're clear."_

The manner of explosive to which they had been referring was, like the plasma splitter, a fairly new innovation on the battlefield. A ten-gram pack of CB explosive had an impact radius of approximately thirty meters – modest by weapons standards. But repro caps could extend that radius out to nearly a kilometer. A bomb could be packed with hundreds of smaller CB caps, propelled to the edge of the initial explosion, with delayed heat-activated detonation. And if those caps contained even smaller caps, the radius could be extended even further, lessened in strength but increased in reach. Their seeming ability to reproduce was the genesis of their name, Repro Caps.

"There's the entrance," Fives stated, using the magnification feature on his infrared. "Looks quiet. I don't see anyone." He was looking at a hinge-style door on the back side of their target structure. It was not the main entrance, and they had not expected to see much—if any—activity in the area.

They moved from trash pile to trash pile, using the refuse to hide their advance.

Not surprisingly, the door was locked, but Pitch had a quick and silent solution for that. The XR-13 was a handheld metal splitter – sort of a miniature light saber that emitted an adjustable beam of light that could be used to cut through metal. It wasn't as powerful as a light saber, but it did have the advantage of being compact and extremely useful for jobs such as this. Making the beam as thin as a sheet of paper, Pitch was able to slice quickly and effortlessly through the bolt on the door.

Once inside, it was, Pitch noted with satisfaction, almost exactly as he had imagined it would be from his studies of the exterior. The door opened into a warehouse-like space, thirty yards across. What neither Pitch nor Fives had been anticipating was that a quarter of the floor space was filled with unmarked cannisters. The rest was empty.

"What do you think is in those?" Echo whispered.

"I don't know, but we'd better find out before we set any charges," Pitch replied.

But an inspection of the cannisters revealed nothing to indicate what was inside, other than the fact that they all had built-in cooling systems.

"Whatever it is, it needs to be kept cold to keep it inert," Pitch noted, switching from infrared to spectrum view in the hopes of picking up some clue. "That means it's a gas of some kind."

At that moment, a loud, scraping noise broke across the silence. The main warehouse doors were opening.

Pitch and Fives crouched down behind the cannisters as a dozen men—some human, others not—entered the warehouse. Two went directly to a pair of lifters parked to one side of the main doors. The rest approached the cannisters.

They spoke in rough Basic.

"We can fit about thirty on this one." The being who spoke was a Twi'lek, and he appeared to be in charge. "That leaves twenty-two to go, and the next ship should be arriving in less than two hours, so no _scunching_ about."

They began loading the cannisters, one at a time, onto the lifter, which then ferried the canister out through the main doors and apparently to an awaiting ship, which neither clone was able to see. But it was not the ship that interested Pitch and Fives, but rather the conversation they were able to pick up as they both enhanced their audio.

"Stupid to move these things. If one ship carrying this stuff gets blown up, that'll do plenty damage, ai-huh, I tell you. Better to break it down."

"And who gon' do zat? You knowing how? I not. No one 'ere got zat knowing how."

"Yea, well . . . Merlick and his crew should know how. They're the fekking scientists, aren't they?"

A third man joined in the debate. "They don't have the equipment here to break down rhydonium, and this osik is rhydonium-based. We know the Republic will come after this base eventually, and if any of this stuff ignites, it'll blow the whole fekking planet up, and both fleets."

"Ai-uh, but don't ya think the 'public knows it's here already? They ain' gon fire no-how on this place," yet another chimed in.

From their hiding place behind the cannisters, Pitch and Fives caught every word, and the implications hit them like an ion storm.

They couldn't use the Repro Caps – or any explosive device – as long as there were still cannisters present. Not just in this facility, but in any facility. The Repro's would easily expand from other locations to take in this one, and if one canister of a rhydonium-based compound were to be ignited, that would put a quick end to more than just a planetary invasion – it would put a quick end to the planet and, as one of the terrorists had said, any ships within the orbit radius impacted by the number of megatons exploded.

"We have to warn the rest of the team," Pitch whispered. "And we can't wait until they load out thirty cannisters to do it." He craned his head around and saw what he had expected to see – a bank of indoor windows between the warehouse and what appeared to be administrative offices. There were two doors, one on each side of the windows. "We need to get out of here before they reach this row. We'll get into those offices, and then we can send an encrypted message."

Fives was grim. "They probably have systems to detect comm signals. Once we send that message, they may know we're here."

Pitch actually smiled beneath his helmet. "No problem. You're an ARC trooper, aren't you? Figure a way out."

Whenever one lifter took a cannisters outside, half of the men accompanied it while the other half worked on loading the second lifter. The noise of the lifter was loud enough that it muffled the sound of retreating footsteps, and the distance to the nearest door was less than twenty meters.

Fives and Pitch had only to run in a crouch to remain out of eyesight, and they were in the first room.

"I'm going to make this quick, and then you'd better be ready to hit it," Pitch warned. "We can't go out the way we came in. We have to go through the building, and that means we may encounter more terrorists."

Fives was as cool as a summer on Hoth. "Nothing I can't handle."

Pitch shook his head. "So much for a straight in-and-out mission. If I didn't know better, I'd say you like this sort of thing." He opened the encrypted channel. "Rhydonium onsite. Approximately 50 cannisters. Mission abort?" He himself did not have the authority to abort the mission.

He only hoped that Captain Rex and Commander Cody would come back quickly with an answer. In the meantime, he turned to Fives. "Let's get the hell out of here."


	83. Chapter 82

_**Dear Reader, thank you to my reviewers: The Unnamed Guest, Freedom Phantom, Guest, Oaky, Shadow Wanderer, Kat, Sued, Ms CT-782, LLTC. A short chapter before all hell breaks lose next chapter. There are a lot of very short scenes in this chapter, setting the stage. So, it jumps between teams quite a bit. Trying to get to the end of the Kettrun sequence before Thanksgiving . . . I love reading people's "guesses" about what might be going to happen! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 82 Stumbling

" _I love those who do not know how to live, except by going under, for they are those who cross over."_

 _Also Spracht Zarathustra (Thus spoke Zarathustra)  
_ Friedrich Nietsche

Ki'weya came to a stop at the edge of a small clearing. He wanted to make sure it was safe before attempting to cross. Such open space was a perfect ambush location, and if the enemy were aware of his approach, this was as good a place as any from which to launch an attack.

He turned his head slightly, with more than a small bit of annoyance, at the clone officer who had somehow managed to stay right with him, never more than a few steps behind, despite the padawan's use of his Jedi skills to set a good pace.

"You're still here?" he said with a sneer.

"Clearly, I am," Top replied without sounding in the least offended. "Are you trying to lose me, Commander?"

"I didn't want you to come along in the first place," came the flippant reply.

"Ah, that may be so, but here I am," Top shot back smoothly. "And since I'm here, I think now would be a good time for you to tell me what your secret mission is."

"It's _my_ mission, Lieutenant; not yours," Ki'weya said, sounding impatient, as if it were a waste of his time to even discuss the matter.

"Well, I'm with you, so that makes it mine, as well," Top rejoined. "And I'm not going any further until I know what we're heading into."

"That's no matter to me. Like I said, I didn't want you tagging along to begin with," the padawan sniffed. "I'll be happy to leave you behind."

"I don't know if you want the likes of me thumping around in the jungle." Top's voice and demeanor took on a challenging and warning glint. "I might accidentally alert the enemy to your presence."

Ki'weya turned and glared at him, naked eye to darkened visor. "Don't think you're so smart, Lieutenant. You would never do anything that could also put your fellow clones at risk."

"I do it all the time," Top replied. "We're all risk-takers. It's part of being a clone. Aren't your own soldiers like that?"

"Absurd," the commander scoffed. "You're bluffing."

"You think I'd blow a mission just to teach you a lesson, Commander? No, I wouldn't. But . . . if I'm just wandering around out here, who knows what might happen."

There was a moment of tension, but then Ki'weya narrowed his eyes in something approaching admiration. Or, at the very least, tolerance.

"I thought clones were supposed to be obedient. Weren't you bred to be that way?"

"I am obedient," Top replied. "Most of the time, anyway. But I'm also not a fool. My captain charged me with looking after you. I'm obedient to _him_."

"I outrank your captain," Ki'weya pointed out.

"Not in any way I can see that matters."

The bluntness, the dearth of military courtesy, and the lack of malice with which the words were spoken caused Ki'weya to pause and consider, rather than come back with an immediate jab. At length, he nodded slowly.

"Very well. My mission is to free some prisoners, one in particular," he began. "Twelve standard days ago, the _Mastok_ and its battle group were attacked by Separatists—"

"Yes, I heard about that," Top interjected. "The _Mastak_ was destroyed."

"Yes. Destroyed _after_ they managed to launch some escape pods. Several of those pods were intercepted," Ki'weya went on. "Jedi Master Piell and several members of the bridge staff were taken prisoner. Intelligence indicates they were brought here."

Top listened intently. "And you think you can go in there by yourself and rescue them?"

Here, for the first time, Ki'weya showed perhaps something more than his usual cold indifference and condescension. "I'm to rescue them if I can." A pause. "Master Piell has information of great importance to the Republic. If nothing else, I have to try to retrieve that information."

"And leave the men behind," Top pressed.

"If I must."

"That doesn't seem very . . . Jedi-like," Top pointed out.

"Maybe not," Ki'weya agreed. "But it's _war_ -like. I'm sure _you_ can appreciate that."

"I can, in fact."

"Good. Then I expect no more . . . veiled threats from you," the padawan concluded. "You said you're here to look after me. I'll let you do that. Do you think you can try to obey my commands?"

Top smiled beneath the visor. "Of course. If you're honest with me, I'll have your back."

* * *

 _Rhydonium? Rhydonium! Fek and all! How could intelligence have missed something like that?_

Rex grit his teeth and spoke calmly. "ALCON, stand by. Remain in place." He switched his comm to a closed loop he shared with Cody. "We can't blow the place now. It would take out half the planet. Any suggestions?"

Cody's voice came back immediately, smooth and cool as always. "Repro caps are out, but other non-proliferating explosives could be used in some of the locations."

"That's still risky," Rex replied. "If any of the explosions reached the rhydonium—"

"Your guys are good, aren't they?" Cody challenged. "As long as there's no rhydonium where they set the charges, they can calculate the blast radius using their HOPO's and keep the blast zone away from the warehouse."

"It's not our call either way," Rex lamented.

"Sync in Commander Ki'weya."

* * *

" _Kripes, this place is like a dungeon. What's this slimy osik all over the floor? And it reeks . . . "_

Top's thoughts were not moving in a pleasant direction as he and Ki'weya stole swiftly down a long, dark corridor, their path visible only through Top's night vision and the commander's naturally sensitive eyes. They'd entered through a door in the ground that opened into an access tunnel running parallel to the main passageway that led to the prison cells. The tunnel was just that – rough hewn from the stone, the walls and ceiling wet and dripping, a floor of slippery mud.

It was not lost on Top that Commander Ki'weya's intelligence seemed to be a great deal more informative than the intelligence that had been made available for the demolition mission; and although that fact rankled him, Top did not fault the commander. The mystery of what intel did or did not make it into the hands of those carrying out the missions was something Top had long ago ceased to contemplate, for it was an exercise in futility.

Twenty or so meters ahead, a faint, flickering light could be seen reflecting on the slime-covered tunnel wall, indication of another passageway branching off.

"We'll take that-" Ki'weya began, falling quickly silent as his wrist comm vibrated, telling him a communication was coming in. He activated his earpiece.

"Commander Ki'weya, this is Commander Cody. We have rhydonium onsite. Approximately 50 cannisters. Repro caps are out. What is your recommendation?"

Top could see the look of consternation on Ki'weya's face, but he had not been synced in and was not privy to the conversation.

"That is your concern, Commander. Carry on as you see fit."

"Commander Ki'weya—"

"I defer to you and the captain regarding this matter. Ki'weya out." The padawan turned to Top. "Let's keep going."

"Commander, what was that about?"

"There's rhydonium onsite."

"That means they can't blow the complex, not with repro caps anyway."

"They'll figure it out. We have to keep going."

"What about the rhydonium?"

"That's not part of my mission," Ki'weya replied with sounded like forced detachment. "I trust your captain and commander to manage the situation."

"But—Sir, their mission can have a direct impact on yours—"

Ki'weya faced him squarely. "Do you or do you not trust your captain to do what's right? If you're going to be useful, I need you to focus on what we're doing and not worry about what they're doing."

It was a challenge of faith, and Top was not about to allow his trust in his captain to be called into question.

"I trust my captain more than I trust you, Sir, with all due respect," Top replied. "But it's foolhardy to disregard an important piece of intel. It won't do much good to rescue your men if we all get blown to bits on the way out."

"Do you honestly believe your captain would take a course of action that would risk setting off the rhydonium? He will find a way to get his job done; that much I could tell about him. He seems to be the type of man who would never bow to failure." A pause as Ki'weya leaned closer and spoke with grave seriousness. "I am more concerned now with the fact that we've had to break radio silence. It's very likely the enemy is now aware of our presence. That means time is of the essence, so this conversation is over, Lieutenant. You're with me or you're not."

Everything that padawan had said was true, and Top recognized that arguing at this point would do nothing but slow them down.

"Very well. Lead on, Sir."

* * *

He had managed to survive another state dinner. The forced civility between some politicians, the inane banalities of others, the opinions of the war and its army . . .

. . . the inevitable discussion of the clones as if they were nothing more than useful implements of war as opposed to individual men, each with his own place within the Force.

He particularly disliked attending the functions his wife sponsored, for it seemed that most of those in attendance were of the "peace at any cost" mindset; and it was this way of thinking that most rankled Anakin. He considered it short-sighted, uninformed, and naïve. Voicing his opinion often led to heated and passionate debates; but he had promised Padme he would not fan the flames at this dinner.

And he had not. He had been polite and reserved, avoiding those conversations that might have led to trouble. And Padme had certainly found the most intimate and thrilling ways of expressing her gratitude.

Now, the following morning, there had been more good news.

Chairman Papanoida's daughters had been found, uninjured and no worse for their ordeal.

So far, leave was shaping up to be quite acceptable.

Padme had gone in early that morning to conduct some Senate Committee business; business of which Anakin wanted and had no part. He had chosen to remain at her residence – secretly, their residence. After seeing her off, he'd gone back to bed and slept peacefully for another hour or two.

Now, he was up and eating leftover Jogan fruitcake for breakfast.

In the morning quiet, his thoughts roamed freely, but at the top of his priorities, he wondered how Rex and his team were doing. They had certainly reached Kettrun by now. Were they engaged in their mission at this moment?

He knew he could attempt to reach out in the Force to see what was happening, yet it was not something he wanted to do. More than often than not, Anakin's attempts to _see_ with the Force had revealed disturbing or frightening images. And certainly, the unconscious intrusions of the Force that he had experienced on several occasions—including those preceding the death of his mother—were confounding and fearsome enough that Anakin had grown leery of using the Force to sense others' presence or to conjure the future.

And so he satisfied himself with merely wondering about the team for the moment. Later, he would contact 808th Infantry himself and get a report. There was no sense in ruminating in a vacuum of details. Yet, he could already feel a tapping somewhere on the fringes of his awareness. It was as if the mere turning of his thoughts towards his captain had awakened the inklings that now were unwilling to cease in their persistence.

He got to his feet and went to the window, hoping that the Coruscant city scape would waylay the encroaching premonitions – or whatever was slowly wending its way into his consciousness. Still, none of the hustle-and-bustle of the city, none of the bright colors, not even the sunlight glinting off the many chromium and glass-sided buildings could stop the intrusion . . .

" _We have to go back, General! We have to go back!"_

It could have been any clone's voice. Anakin couldn't tell. But that's all it was. A voice in a swirl of grey. A voice of desperation with which Anakin felt an immediate kindredness, a commonality.

He spoke out loud. "We will go back."

The grey gave way to a sterile blue and silver . . . glass shattering, pipes rupturing, walls cracking, floors rumbling . . .

. . . and the dead. So many dead.

Silence.

" _Rex . . ."_

"Master Ani?"

Anakin startled and drew in a sharp breath. He gathered his wits before turning. "Threepio."

"I am sorry to disturb you, but there seems to be an emergency situation at the Senate," the droid stated. "A number of Senators have been taken hostage." A reluctant pause. "Including Senator Amidala."

* * *

Cody grimaced. He hadn't expected Commander Ki'weya to be so indifferent towards the news of the rhydonium. But it was clear from the padawan's communication, that the matter was being left up to both him and Rex, and that suited Cody just fine, despite his disgust at the commander's clear lack of concern for this part of the mission.

"You heard the man, Rex. Suggestions?"

"Set smaller charges with smaller blast radiuses, bypass the warehouse altogether," Rex replied. "And do it in half the time. I'm sure they've detected our communication signals."

"Agreed on all points. I'll put out the word. You and Bads keep heading towards your objective," Cody stated.

"Copy that."

* * *

Top spoke in a whisper. "I don't see any guards anywhere. And there haven't been any prisoners in any of these cells."

Ki'weya waved his hand as both an acknowledgment and a warning to be quiet.

The two cut over into one of the cell-lined corridors and passed at least a dozen cells, all empty. And, as Top had stated, there was not a guard in sight.

They were nearing the main entrance from within the dungeon, but even from a distance, they could not discern any activity other than a weak and flickering light up ahead. Coming to the small open area, they found a single man sitting at a single desk with his back to them, his feet kicked up on the desk, his eyes focused on a bawdy holo-zine.

They took the man completely by surprise. He didn't even have a chance to raise his weapon.

"Where are all the prisoners?" Ki'weya demanded.

The man scoffed. "No prisoners here, Republic scum."

"We _know_ they had a Jedi being held here," the padawan persisted, then to Top, "Go check the other corridors." Then to the sole guard, "You're going to want to be cooperative."

There were only two other corridors and Top made quick work of them, reporting back within one minute. "All the cells are empty."

"Where have the prisoners been taken?" Ki'weya asked.

" _Dit'iya tenta_ ," came the reply.

Ki'weya smiled. "I speak Tanktonese, and you really shouldn't say things like that. But . . . you will tell me what I want to know. You will tell me where the Jedi prisoner has been taken."

The guard was silent, but there seemed to be a crack in his defiant manner.

"You _will_ tell me where the Jedi prisoner has been taken."

"I . . . will not . . . "

"You _will_ tell me where the Jedi prisoner has been taken."

Top watched with both fascination and a degree of horror. He had never seen a Jedi use the powers of the Force to get into someone's mind and compel their thought-processes. To be sure, General Skywalker had always preferred outright physical brutality or the threat of it to get what he wanted. This mind control was something Top had heard of, but to see it in action was not just impressive but disturbing.

"He—he was taken—agh!—taken to—to—to—"

"Tell me!"

"The Citadel!"

Top could feel the shock and dismay that suddenly emanated from the commander. He himself knew fully well what the Citadel was and the weight of this revelation.

"When?" Ki'weya demanded.

"More than 10 days ago," the man replied. A despicable smile stretched across his face. "We knew you would come here sooner or later. We were smarter."

"A reward for your cleverness," Ki'weya ground out, giving Top a look that needed no explanation.

And Top had no qualms about killing a terrorist in cold blood.

One shot did the trick.

"We need to get out of here," Ki'weya stated.

"What about the rest of the team," Top asked.

"Did I not make myself clear, Lieutenant? They will do the job they came here to do," the commander replied. "I have no doubt that we will be hearing explosions any minute now. We don't want to still be in the complex when they go off."

* * *

Denal reached his arm out, pulling Blackie back into the cover of the alcove just in time to avoid being seen by a gaggle of armed men moving at a quick clip down the adjacent corridor.

"Those men look like they're on a mission," Denal stated. "I think our secret is out."

"Well, we had no choice. The captain had to break radio silence," Blackie replied. "But we still have at least a hundred meters of corridor left before we reach our objective."

"Blackie, ole' boy, I don't think we're going to be able to get there," Denal opined. "Is there somewhere around here we could plant the explosives?"

Blackie took a quick look around then pulled up the schematic on his HUD. "This is a load-bearing wall. If you can boost me up into the ceiling panels, I can probably lay a line of CP-9 and take down this whole corridor."

"Let's do it."

* * *

"This place is getting too busy. They know we're here."

Rex noticed the sudden increase in activity with a cool observational manner; but internally, he knew that they had run out of time, that the mission was in jeopardy of failing, and he had to get his men out of the place and back to the extraction point.

"That's the fifth patrol we've seen, Captain," Bads added. "I think we'd do best to place the explosives here and pull out."

"Agreed," Rex replied. "It looks like they've detected our signals, but not the content of our communications. They may or may not know what we're trying to do, but they know we're here." He opened encrypted communications with the entire ground team. "Mission abort. The enemy knows we're here. _Unload your cargo_ wherever you can and proceed to the rendez-vous."

The acknowledgments came in as Rex watched Bads rig his own explosives. He still held out hope that the team might be able to inflict some serious damage despite the change in plans. He had no desire to return to the leadership only to report that they had not achieved their goal.

Less than a minute later, Bads had completed his task, and the two men were on their way.

They had gone less than ten meters down the corridor when the floor shook beneath them, and the sound of a muffled explosion met their ears.

"What the hell was that?" Rex hissed. "Did someone already detonate?"

"No, Sir, that didn't feel like an explosive concussion," Bads replied. "That felt like an impact weapon. A mortar or grenade . . . or a missile."

Rex opened a channel. "All teams! Report!"

Pitch and Fives reported in. Denal and Blackie followed. Hardcase and Fuse. Top and Commander Ki'weya. Kix and Echo. The only one not reporting in . . .

"Cody, do you copy?" Rex held his breath waiting for an answer, but he was met with only silence. "Commander Cody, do you read?" Swallowing down his dread, he motioned to Bads to follow him. "Let's get out of here."

"Sir, the commander—"

"That's what we're going to find out."


	84. Chapter 83

_**Dear Reader, Thank you so much to my reviewers: The Unnamed Guest, Freedom Phantom, Shadow Wanderer, Abuv the Clouds, Meridan Pony, Lilith, Katyln, Oaky the Oak Tree, and Guest 1 and Guest 2! Your comments are much appreciated and help keep me motivated. I'd hoped to have this up Thanksgiving, but better late than never. This one moves pretty quickly. I know it's hard to keep up with all these clones! Hard for me, too! I hope you enjoy. I will be heading off to Germany for Christmas Markets the first two weeks of December. I hope to have another chapter up before leaving that closes out this little adventure (or misadventure, as the case may be). Also, it's so much fun to read people's guesses about what's going to happen or see when they catch how I'm trying to tie in these stories with the cannon stories. The question came up if I was going to do the Citadel episode in my story. The answer is yes, but not in the degree of detail of the series. I can tell you that this story will contain bits of the episodes where Echo "dies", Fives dies, Ahsoka leaves, Umbara, Echo's "return". Anything that I look at as having a strong impact on Rex gets into the tale. Needless to say . . . long tale! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 83 Pursuit and Decision

" _Bigwig was racing back across the field, looking more agitated than he had at any time since the encounter with Captain Holly. He ran into the water almost headlong and paddled over fast, leaving an arrowhead ripple on the calm brown surface. He was speaking as he jerked himself out on the sandy foreshore. 'Well, Hazel, if I were you I shouldn't wait until ni-Frith to cross. I should go now. In fact, I think you'll have to. There's a large dog loose in the wood."_

 _Watership Down  
_ Richard Adams

Cody could hear the sound of his own breathing. And somewhere beyond that . . . Rex's voice.

" _Cody. Cody, come in. Cody, respond. Cody!"_

" _Crying out loud, Rex, calm down,"_ the commander said in the silence of his own mind. _"What the hell happened . . . "_ He sat up slowly, carefully. While his body seemed to be intact, he was beginning to feel diffuse pain in various places. Around him dust and smoke were swirling, but as they settled, he became aware that he was no longer in the same place where he had been only moments earlier. If he were judging correctly, he'd been thrown at least thirty meters from his previous spot.

"Commander!"

A voice was suddenly at his shoulder. Turning, he saw Echo and Kix crouching down beside him. It was Kix who had spoken.

"Commander, are you alright?" the medic was asking in precise, persistent syllables.

"I'm okay," Cody replied. "Just . . . give me a second. What happened?"

Kix, focused on the commander's condition, ignored the question and reached out to remove his helmet, leaving it to Echo to answer.

"It was a rocket-propelled grenade," Echo explained.

"Where did it come from?"

"While we were waiting, a group of seven or eight men passed below us, heading back towards the camp," Echo began. "We could see they were in a hurry. They weren't speaking Basic, but we got the impression that our team had been discovered. We didn't want to break radio silence, so we decided to follow them a bit to see if we should stop them, and when they came over that rise back there, they saw you. They were going to shoot you, so we opened fire. One of them was carrying a shoulder launcher. When he went down, the weapon went off and hit about fifteen meters from where you were hiding."

"So . . . safe to say our secret is definitely out," Cody presumed.

"Yes, I think that's true,"

"Where are the men you were following?"

"All dead, Sir."

Here, Kix interjected. "Can you stand, Commander?"

"I think so," Cody stated, starting to his feet, but right away, he knew something was wrong. Not only would his right leg support no weight, but his vision began to blur and swim.

"Woah, take it slow, Commander. Sit back down," Kix cautioned, easing him back to the ground.

"My right leg can't hold my weight," Cody stated.

Kix took a quick look and saw a line of deep red forming a streak down the side of the armor covering the commander's thigh; and tracing it up to the juncture between the pelvic armor and the leg armor, he identified a deep gash that was oozing forth a swell of blood.

"You've got a pretty serious injury here, Commander," Kix said, pulling out his mediscan and running it over the area. "Your TFL is partially torn, and there's a lot of fraying. A bacta tank will handle it, but you won't be able to walk until it's fixed. I'm going to inject coag to help stem the bleeding until we can get you out of here."

For Cody, this news was little more than a nuisance. He had other more important things on his mind than his own pain and the danger his injury put him in.

"Dragon Two, this is Dragon One," he said into his comm, using the mission call signs.

Rex responded, disregarding radio protocol. "Cody! Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," came the dishonest reply. "DS the mission." DS was code for "Deep Six" – or abort – the mission. "Eyes open," he concluded, referring to the fact that their presence had been discovered.

"Copy that," Rex replied. "Team One, Huttlet." Again, code for indicating that the explosives were in place. "All, report."

Each of the other teams reported that they had planted the explosives and were enroute to the rendez-vous.

"Negative," Cody ordered. "Use secondary rendez-vous coordinates."

As the acknowledgments came in, Kix pressed the commander to begin moving. "Commander, we need to start moving now if we're going to make it to the extraction point. You're going to need extra time."

Cody nodded his understanding, then to Echo, "Go to the secondary rendez-vous and report as the others pass through."

"Yes, Commander. Shall I call in the aircrew?"

"No. I'll do that myself as we get closer. I don't want them showing up too soon," Cody replied. "We know the enemy has shoulder-launch munitions that could take out the ship. I don't want them coming in until the last possible second."

"Understood, Commander."

* * *

"It sounds like we have quite a mess on our hands," Ki'weya stated.

"Nothing we can't handle," Top replied gamely. "I've been in much worse circumstances." A pause. "The captain's ordered us to pull back."

"Good thing we're already on our way out," Ki'weya said with a semblance of a smile. "Let's, uh, just make sure we don't attract any more unwanted attention."

"I've got your back, Sir. Lead the way."

* * *

Denal and Blackie were the first to arrive at the rendez-vous.

"Where are the others?" Denal asked immediately.

"You're the first," Echo replied.

"Commander Cody? Kix?"

"They're on their way to the extraction point," Echo explained. "The commander was hurt pretty badly. Kix wanted to get a head start getting him out of here."

"What the hell happened?" Blackie asked. "What was that explosion?"

Echo explained what had happened, concluding with, "I just hope we get to blow this place before they send out more men to look for us."

As he spoke, Pitch and Fives emerged from the jungle.

Fives, in his usual graceless manner, blurted out, "Fek and all, this is a *combi. What happened out here? What was that explosion?"

Again, Echo explained.

"How did we not know that there was rhydonium on site?" Pitch fumed.

Fives picked up his line of venting. "How did we not know the jungle would be full of terrorists out training and running patrols?"

Denal, ever reasonable and on-point, spoke up. "Good questions, but not our top priority right now." He looked to Echo. "Did the captain still want us to hold here and detonate when the last team arrives?"

"He didn't say any differently," Echo replied.

"Well, with all the activity going on now, it might be a good idea for us to hand over our detonators to one man and set up a leap-frog defensive retreat," the sergeant proposed. He raised his wrist and was about to contact his captain when the latter arrived at the rendez-vous, along with Bads.

Rex wasted no time. "Who are we missing?"

"Hardcase and Fuse. Top and Commander Ki'weya," Echo replied.

"Contact them, get their status and—"

Rex did not finish the sentence.

A burst of blaster fire tore through the leaves above his head.

"Get down!" he shouted, leaping behind a moss-covered rock outcropping to his left. He needn't have given the order, for at the sound of the fire and the sight of it shredding the leaves and peppering the ground, everyone dove for cover.

Over the noise of the continuing barrage, Rex called out, "Return fire!" Into his helmet comm, he spoke calmly. "This is Dragon Two. We are under fire. Repeat. We are under fire."

A scream of anguish drew Rex's attention. He turned to see Blackie writhing on the ground not far from where Pitch and Fives were taking cover behind a large, twisted tree. Blackie was clutching at his right leg.

Without hesitation, Fives belly-crawled out to the injured man, grabbed him under the arms, and dragged him to the relative safety of the tree.

"We've got one man down," Rex said into his comm.

"We can hear it, Dragon Two. We're coming to assist." This was Hardcase's voice.

Rex pushed up onto his elbow and peered around the edge of the rocks behind which he was taking cover, just as another voice rose in pain, but this time it came from the jungle beyond. His own men were finding a few targets at least. He could see three of the enemy poking their heads out from behind trees and clusters green-covered rocks and earthen mounds.

"I can make out at least three!" He shouted. He was not worried about picking off three snipers as much as he was afraid of how many more there were and where they would pop up, for it was highly likely that the camp had dispatched a number of patrols to squash the enemy incursion.

The exchange went on for several minutes, then the sound of increased and dissonant blaster-fire rose from behind the enemy.

"Hold your fire!" Rex commanded his gaggle.

There were a few more bursts of fire from in front of them, then all was silent until a familiar voice rose loudly.

"Captain! It's us!"

" _Hardcase,"_ Rex smiled to himself. _"I can always depend on you to bring the fight."_

Rex got up and looked out from his cover. His eyes fell on the sight of Fuse leaning over a dead body. Hardcase was strolling among his handiwork, at least a dozen of the enemy.

"Hardcase!"

"They're all dead," came the reply.

"Hurry up here, then!" Rex moved over to drop down on one knee where Fives was tending to Blackie's injury.

"He's been hit in the thigh," Fives reported. "It doesn't look the artery was hit, but he won't be able to walk."

"I can make it with some help," Blackie ground out between clenched teeth. "But fek, I need something for the pain."

"I've got low-dose hypo," Echo offered.

"Do what you need to," Rex interjected, "And do it quick. We're not going to be alone for much longer. We've got to get out of here."

"What about Top and Commander Ki'weya?" Pitch asked.

"Let me worry about that," Rex replied. He raised communications again. "Dragon Three, this is Dragon Two. Top, come in."

"Dragon Two, this is Three. I read you."

"Location?"

"Approximately one minute from the rendez-vous."

"Pursuit?"

"Negative, Sir. Not that I can detect. But . . . the alarm has definitely gone up. It looked like they were scrambling teams to send out."

"Copy. Continue to the rendez-vous." Rex paused. He needed only a moment to organize his thoughts and come up with a plan. Spur-of-the-moment decision-making was one of his strongest assets, and once he made a decision, he never second-guessed himself.

He pulled out his HOPO and projected the recon survey map of the area. "Echo, get Blackie back to the extraction point. Follow this route. We're all going to follow this route. Denal, you and Fuse take up a leap position in this area. Fives, you and Bads take up the second leap position here. It'll be up to you two to stop anyone that gets past the first position. Hardcase, to the edge of the plains. Keep it clear until we get there. Pitch, you're with me. Our number one priority, after blowing this place, is to make sure the extraction team can get in safely. We want to eliminate as much ground-fire as possible."

"I understand, Captain," Fives replied. "We won't let you down."

Rex nodded once and held out his hand. "Give me your detonators."

As they turned over the devices, Denal drew in close and spoke quietly. "Are you sure about this, Captain? Would you rather one of us stay to wait for the rest of the team and blow the place?"

Rex was never surprised by Denal's selflessness. The sergeant would have done anything for him, anything for the team, for the success of the mission. And Rex congratulated himself every time he was reminded of what a good decision he'd made in requesting "First Escort" be reassigned to the 501st.

"I've got it," the captain answered. "I need the rest of you to cover our escape route."

"Very good, Sir," Denal acknowledged. "We'll be ready."

* * *

Anakin would be pleased to never hear the name of Cad Bane again.

The bounty hunter's attempt to free Ziro the Hutt by taking members of the Senate hostage had succeeded, leaving a trail of dead in its wake.

Anakin had managed to save the Senators, but not before Bane and his crew of bounty hunters had secured Ziro's freedom and escaped to unknown destinations. In that sense, it was only a partial success; and Anakin did not like partial successes.

"You're being too hard on yourself, Anakin." Such was Obi-wan's admonishment, given in the aftermath of the ordeal as Anakin had delivered his report on what had happened. "Bane may have gotten away with the Hutt, but you saved the lives of the Senators. That is the most important thing."

Anakin could not be so forgiving, and he knew he dared not reveal that he'd been without his light saber, entrusted to Padme the night before as a symbol of how important she was to him.

Obi-wan continued. "The important thing now is to find Ziro and bring him back." Seeing Anakin's utter disinterest and his clear preoccupation with his failure, Obi-wan changed direction. "Weren't you supposed to go on a meditative retreat for part of our shore leave?"

"I decided against it."

Obi-wan sighed. "Anakin, that might be part of your problem. You _do_ tend to dwell on the negative. Meditation can help you come back to the center. The Force allows you to calm your mind. It's not good for you to neglect honing your meditative skills."

Anakin thought for a moment, swallowing down troubling memories. At last, he said, "Meditation isn't always a . . . positive experience for me."

Obi-wan had some inkling of what his former padawan was referring to. "I thought the alarming images only came to you in your sleep."

"The ones of my mother . . . those were in my sleep," Anakin replied. "But not the ones I see now."

Obi-wan raised an eyebrow and waited for him to go on.

"I have visions when I'm wide awake now, whether I'm trying to meditate or not," Anakin explained.

"What are they visions of?"

"I'm not sure," Anakin admitted. "But I . . . I think . . . Rex is part of them."

"Rex?"

"Yeah."

Obi-wan eyed him curiously. "What do you see?"

"Sand . . . canyons. It looks the Dungan Wastes, but I can't tell. I can't see anything clearly. I just hear a lot of screaming and yelling and weapons going off." He paused. "I want to stay and you want to go. It feels like a . . . a decision I can't make." He drew in a deep breath. "There's more. I'm somewhere . . . grey and cold. It feels sterile, and I can tell it's an evil place. There's glass breaking, the ground is cracking. Everything's coming apart."

"In everything you just described, you didn't mention Rex once," Obi-wan pointed out. "What makes you think it has something to do with him?"

Anakin shook his head. "I don't know. It's just a sense I have. In the visions, I know—I can tell that he's just beyond the scene that I'm seeing." He clenched his fists. "When I went to see them off on this last mission, I got the strangest feeling when I looked at him."

"You're afraid he's in danger on this mission?"

"We're all in danger whenever we go on any mission," Anakin replied reasonably. "But it just felt so odd."

"Well . . . the location of this mission isn't anywhere near a desert or sand," Obi-wan pointed out. "They're in the jungle."

Anakin was silent.

"Are you still worried about him?" Obi-wan inquired.

"It's not exactly worry," Anakin replied. "More of a . . . concern."

Obi-wan studied his apprentice for several seconds, noting the furrowed brow and grim expression.

"I have a concern, too, Anakin—"

Anakin cut him off. "You're going to tell me—again—that I'm developing too much of an attachment to Rex. Master, I've heard it plenty of times. And I've never denied it. But it's no different than how I feel about you or Ahsoka or . . . any of my soldiers."

"It _is_ different, Anakin," Obi-wan disagreed. "I've warned you, but you just don't listen to me. Whatever bond we have as Jedi is based on our shared vocation. What you have with your troopers—and especially Rex—is—"

"Based on _our_ shared vocation as _soldiers_ ," Anakin interrupted.

"No, Anakin," Obi-wan said firmly. "It's more than just the bond between brothers-in-arms. You're so attached to them that we fear you would choose them and their safety over your commitment to the Order."

"We? The Jedi Council has an opinion on this? On _my_ relationship with _my_ soldiers?"

"You know it's come up before."

"It's called being a good commanding officer," Anakin asserted.

"I would never argue that point," Obi-wan conceded. "Your men are devoted to you. I'm just cautioning you against this attachment you've formed."

"Warning acknowledged," Anakin said. "Trust me, Master." A wry grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "And that being said, I'm going to Kettrun."

Obi-wan's jaw almost dropped. "What?"

"I have to know what's happening," Anakin replied.

"Anakin—this is precisely what I was talking about," Obi-wan stressed. "You can't go after them. This is their mission."

"I've got nothing going on here, Obi-wan," Anakin replied. "I can be there in one standard rotation if I take the hyperspace lanes."

"Anakin—"

"You said yourself, this is our shore leave," Anakin jumped in right away. "I've got nothing going on here. You can handle the hunt for Ziro yourself, can't you?"

"Anakin, you have no reason to go after them," Obi-wan persisted. "You need to trust them."

"I do trust them. It's just . . . "

" . . . the vision?"

"I'd feel better if I were there," Anakin stated.

"They've probably already concluded that mission," Obi-wan pointed out. "You'd probably be getting there after the fact."

"Then I'll be there to congratulate them on their success," Anakin rejoined.

"Anakin, you can't go rushing off any time you get a bad feeling about something," Obi-wan warned.

"I won't," came the reply. "But I am this time."

* * *

Rex heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of Top and Commander Ki'weya emerging from the jungle.

"Captain," Top reported in. "We saw a lot of men arming up. Some of them were leaving the camp and heading in this general direction."

"Let's turn their attention elsewhere," Rex said, tossing one of the detonators to Top and another to Ki'weya. He and Pitch kept the last two. "Blow 'em."

In the next instant, the night was torn to pieces, going up in flashes of light and plumes of smoke. There was a moment of breath-holding nervousness as the foursome waited to see if their calculations had been accurate in not setting off the rhydonium.

"Looks like it worked," Top stated.

"Right. Let's get going," Rex nodded. "Be aware. We've got two leap teams up ahead, ready to take down any pursuit."

They pushed their way up the lower slope of the ridge, coming again to the treeline, then they began the trek back towards the extraction point, Rex leading the way, following the clear signs of the team members that had preceded his own group.

They had gone perhaps half a kilometer with no sign of pursuit when Top caught sight of movement in front of them. "Captain," he said in a whisper, reaching his arm out to halt their progress. "Ahead, fifty meters at 350 degrees."

Rex followed the line of direction and spotted the aberration of white against the lush green backdrop, growing even more visible in the increasing light of sunrise.

"They're ours," Top announced.

"It's Echo and Blackie," Rex stated, then adding under his breath, "Damn, this is as far as they've gone?" He spoke into his helmet comm, himself disregarding radio protocol. "Echo, this is Rex. We're coming up right behind you."

"Copy that, Sir."

It took less than a minute for Rex's team to catch up to the two men.

"You've got to move faster," Rex pressed. "Pitch, take his other arm and let's pick up the pace."

"I could carry him," Ki'weya offered. "That would be faster than this."

"No offense, Commander," Rex deferred, "But I'd rather have you and your light saber at the ready."

"The goal at this point is to outrun them, Captain, not to outfight them," Ki'weya replied. A pause. "It's a given that they've sent out men to find us. Speed is critical now."

Rex considered his words. The padawan was right. "Agreed. I'll lead. Top, you cover the rear." As they began moving again, Rex asked, "Where are the others?"

"They outpaced us and went ahead to take up their positions, Sir," Echo replied.

"Good, good. I just hope they're ready, because we're leaving a trail through this wood that even a blind _woofjat_ could follow."

"Maybe the chaos of the explosions will slow them down," Echo offered.

"If it does, it will only be for a few seconds," Rex said. "These are terrorists. They're used to chaos, and the loss of life of their own doesn't even mean anything to them. They'll be coming."

And he was correct. Despite the good pace they were able to set with Ki'weya carrying their injured man, it was not long before Rex could hear the faint sound of a foreign tongue coming from behind them, in the jungle through which they had just passed. Every anxious glance over his shoulder revealed nothing, but Rex knew they were being tracked. Just how far behind them their pursuers were, Rex could not discern. No heat signatures showed up in his HUD 360 display. But he knew one thing with certainty: the voices were growing louder, coming nearer. The enemy was gaining on them.

Rex checked his HUD coordinates. He and his men were roughly two kilometers from the edge of the plains. At this rate, they would be overtaken before reaching the relative safety of the extraction point. And even worse, if they did not somehow manage to evade their pursuers, they could not risk calling in the ship and exposing them to enemy fire at close range.

Rex spoke into the frequency he shared with Cody. "Cody, this is Rex."

"Go ahead, Rex."

"We are being pursued. We're roughly two kilometers from the edge of the plain," he reported, then gave their coordinates. "I'm not sure if they've spotted us, but they're definitely tracking us. We have one injured. We can't outrun them, but I've got teams that might be able to slow them down."

"I'll relay a request for assistance to the 808th," Cody replied. "Radio again when you're at the edge of the plains, and I'll order the aircrew in."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Commander," Rex replied. "It will depend on how close behind us the enemy is."

"That's my call, Rex," Cody replied.

"Are you onboard now?"

"Negative," came the reply. "Kix and I are at the extraction point. I haven't called in the ship yet. When you get here, we'll all leave together."

Rex sighed, knowing how hard-headed Cody could be. This was no time to argue. "Copy that." He then sidled up next to Ki'weya. "Commander, they're going to overtake us. We have to give you a chance to get Blackie back to the extraction point. I'm going to hold back me and my three men to try and slow them down, at least until you get to the first leap position, about another half kilometer."

"Captain, five of us could make it at the cost of one man," the commander pointed out with shocking indifference.

"That's not an option," Rex replied.

He was followed by an angry confirmation.

"You're fekking right it's not an option." This from Top. "And you're a fekking bastard for suggesting it."

Ki'weya was not moved. "As commander of this mission, I could order he be left behind—"

"And every one of us would disobey that order," Rex pointed out. "You even volunteered to carry him. Are you changing your mind now? We're all ready to die to protect even one brother."

Top interjected again, "Don't waste your breath, Captain. He doesn't feel loyalty even to his fellow Jedi, much less a clone."

"If you are both finished carrying on, then let me say that I am willing to do as you ask," Ki'weya replied. "I have the information I need. My mission is complete, though not in the way I would have liked. Still, I will consider it to be a success if I get back to the fleet with the information I have obtained. If the rest of you want to cover my retreat so you can save one man, I will not argue that. I was merely stating that if we leave him behind, the five of us have a better chance of escaping."

Here, Blackie, slung over the padawan's shoulder, spoke up. "Uh, not meaning to interrupt, but as the one being talked about, I don't particularly want to be left behind—"

"No one's leaving anyone behind-" Rex began.

"—but if worse comes to worst—" Blackie attempted to finish, but this time it was Top who cut him off.

"No one is being left behind! Over my dead body."

"That very well may end up being the case," Ki'weya noted. "And _that_ would be a waste."

Top ignored him. "What are your orders, Captain?"

"You, me, Pitch, and Echo are going to hang back and buy them some time," Rex replied. "We're going to try and buy time for the ship to get in or at least for help to arrive."

The three clones acknowledged with grim determination.

"Commander Ki'weya, all I want from you is to get him back to the extraction point," Rex stated. "Will you make sure that happens?"

Ki'weya nodded once. "I'll make sure. You're a brave man, Captain, with brave men serving under you. Foolish and unreasonable, but brave."

Rex watched as the padawan bounded off into the jungle, carrying his wounded bundle. He then opened a channel to his leap teams to let them know the circumstances. Lastly, he turned to Top, Pitch, and Echo. "We've got to give these assholes behind us a serious enough reason to divert from the trail we're leaving," he said, starting to head further up the slope of the ridge. "And we're going to do that by killing as many of them as possible. If we ambush them here, that will be all the fewer for our leap teams."

They broke above the tree line where a stone gully ran as far as the eye could see in either direction. Heading south towards the plain, keeping in the gully, they came to a spot that afforded a fair view and relatively unobstructed line-of-fire into the area through which the enemy would be passing.

"When they come through, just spray the place and don't stop firing until I tell you to," Rex instructed. "I'll radio Cody and let him know what we're doing."

* * *

"How's the pain, Commander?"

Cody answered truthfully. "Not so bad, but I think once the adrenaline wears off and we're out of this situation, I'll probably feel it a lot more."

Kix noted the growing palor in the commander's face, but it was cause for only minimal concern. Kix had managed to stop most of the bleeding, and that was the main thing. Now, he had only to keep his charge still and the wound clean and protected.

"But it sounds like you've got another injury coming in," Cody went on. "Good thing we brought you with us."

"My opinion, exactly," Kix said, and Cody could hear the earnestness in his voice. Now, in these few moments of waiting, of uncertainty, the commander took the opportunity to study the man tending to him, a man whose life had hung in the balance not so long ago. Without his helmet, there was little to disguise the medic's sentiments. Even when he wore the helmet, Kix had a way of conveying his emotions and opinions without the benefit of facial expression.

At the moment, un-helmeted, he appeared focused on the task at hand, tending to an injured team member. But etched into the corners of his eyes, discernible in the taut, drawn mouth, was an unmistakable fear. It wasn't fear of capture or failure or death. It was the fear he felt on account of his squad mates. He might trust them with his life, but he feared for their own lives.

Even though Kix was not one of his own soldiers, Cody had recognized very early on that there was a strange dichotomy at work in the medic. Kix was as tough as any other trooper in the 501st—or any other unit, for that matter. Cody was of the opinion that Kix was, in fact, tougher than the vast majority of soldiers—clone or otherwise. Yet, knowing his history, knowing how Kix—and the rest of Saber Squad—had come to be a part of the 501st, Cody was also fully cognizant of a hazy weakness, a peculiar fragility where Kix was concerned. And while most quarters of society would consider the medic's sensitivities admirable and desirable, such was not the case in an army of soldiers creating for the sole purpose of waging war. Those sensitivities had brought Kix—and his squad mates—close to disaster. Had it not been for Kix's own perseverance and that of Saber Squad, they may never have made it into Rex's 501st. Even worse, Kix probably would never have made it off Kamino.

" _Look at him now. One of the best medics in the entire army. But it's still there. It will always be there._ " Cody allowed himself a small grin, a scoff at the supposed wisdom of the Kaminoans. _"The fatal flaw."_

"Cody, this is Rex."

Cody raised his wrist comm. "Go ahead, Rex."

"I've sent the commander ahead with Blackie. We're going to buy them time."

"Copy that," Cody replied. "I've contacted the 808th. They're going to try and get us some help."

"I think it would be a good idea to get the ship down now," Rex suggested. "She can land before the fighting gets too close. It's easier to just take off under fire than to try landing and taking off."

"I've already called her in. I knew you were getting close," Cody replied, not at all surprised that he and Rex were on the same wavelength when it came to such things. "She's about five minutes out."

"Good." A pause. "Cody, I don't know how many are following us or how many will make it to the plains. Be ready to fight. Tell your men, be ready to fight."

"We're always ready, Rex," came the reply. "Just give us warning. We don't need any friendly fire incidents."

* * *

Rex heard the steady approach of the pursuers long before he saw the first of them. At first, when he had peered over the lip of the gully in which he'd taken up a position, he had seen only one or two. Then, the jungle was suddenly filled with them. They seemed to emerge from nowhere, one after the other, like pudu beetles crawling up from a drain. Rex spent half a minute counting them as they drew nearer.

Thirty . . . thirty-six . . . forty-one . . .

Rex had not expected there to be so many.

There was no sense in waiting any longer. He had clear shots on quite a number of them. He and his three companions could take down a sizeable portion of the group in the initial burst, if they were lucky.

He held up his arm as a signal to his men to take aim. A slashing motion, and they opened fire.

Immediately, the targets sprang for cover; but Rex could tell, from the manner in which several of them had fallen, that they would not be getting back up, at least not in any useful capacity. In these first moments, there seemed to be a great deal of confusion among the ambushed men. They looked about wildly, trying to locate the direction from which the assault was coming. It occurred to Rex that the rock gully and the overhanging walls of stone were reflecting the sound of blaster fire all over the area, making it hard to pinpoint the source. But in the meantime, the enemy fired blindly in all directions. When it became apparent the attack was coming from one side, they focused their attention and their efforts, but not before at least of dozen of them had been dropped.

And yet, it seemed that each one downed was just as quickly replaced. The air around the troopers' hiding place was now so thick with blaster fire and projectile fire that the clones dared not raise their heads for fear of having them blown from their shoulders. They could hear the attackers moving up the hillside, and they were not going to wait around to meet them. When something with more explosive power than a blaster or rifle landed on the ground just below the clones' hiding place, kicking up a shower of dirt and rocks, that was the deciding factor.

"Let's get out of here!" he ordered. "Follow the gully! Stay low!" A pause. "Leap One! Denal, we're on the move!"

"Copy that, Captain. We're ready."

Rex followed his men along the floor of the gully, but he had only gone a few meters when a violent force smashed him from behind, knocking him and the others to the ground. Pieces of rock and other debris rained down around and on top of him. With a dull flash of shock, Rex's mind immediately categorized the explosion as a grenade, and he was absolutely positive there were more to follow.

He got to his feet, snatched up his blaster, and prodded his men. "Go! Go!" They began to run again. Rex knew they could not stay in the gully the whole way, for once their pursuers crested the top, they would see which direction the clones had run and have a straight shot down the gully and into their backs. After a wind sprint of nearly a hundred meters, the clones could hear the sharp, cacophonous ping of blaster and bullet shots hitting the rock surfaces around them.

"Out! Go back down below the treeline! Out of the gully!" Rex ordered.

It took no more than two powerful leaps for the clones to exit the gully, and then they began weaving their way through the jungle, running full tilt, while all around them, a hailstorm of fire tore through the undergrowth.

"They're right behind us!" Rex gasped breathlessly into his helmet comm.

"We're tracking you, Sir," Denal said calmly. "Another fifty meters and we'll be in range. How many are following you?"

"I—at least thirty! Maybe—more!"

"Keep coming this way, Captain. When you cross over the little stream, break to either side."

They came upon the stream within seconds. It was shallow, less than knee-high, and no more than five meters across. Once on the other side, Rex broke right; Top and Echo broke left.

"Captain!"

Rex turned to see Bads behind him, waving from behind a large tree. Rex picked his way through the undergrowth.

"Where's Denal?"

"On the other side, Sir."

It was then that Rex noticed two dead men—terrorists—lying on the ground just beyond where Bads was standing.

Bads, seeing where his captain was looking, stated, "We ran into a little action of our own." He then reached down to his waist and produced a hand-grenade. "These deadies provided us with a little token of their affection. Denal has one, too."

Beneath his helmet, Rex smiled. "I love you both." Into his helmet comm, he ordered, "When they come through here, toss those grenades into the biggest concentrations. You both have to throw within seconds of each other before they have a chance to disperse. Then I want you to run like hell. Head for the plains. Pass through Leap Two. We'll lay down cover fire and get Leap Two back to the plains." A brief pause. "Did you see Commander Ki'weya and Blackie come through?"

"Yes, Sir, about seven minutes before you got here."

Rex nodded. "Good. That's giving them a good lead."

* * *

Cody had a reputation for being composed in any situation. He considered that this reputation, while understandably earned, was not completely accurate. It would be more truthful to say that the commander had mastered the ability to appear unflappable no matter how nervous or what turmoil was going on inside his head.

Now was a perfect example.

BB had landed the ship at the far end of the plain, where the man-high grass did a fairly good job of concealing it from distant eyes. The entire aircrew—BB, Tenby, Strings and Coze—had been listening to the communications of the other teams, while Kix had made use of the ship's expanded medical supplies to further treat Commander Cody's injury.

Cody felt a sense of relief and security to have the ship on the ground, but he also felt a heightened sense of anxiousness in that now, their primary means of escape—and a somewhat large target once detected—was on the ground in waiting mode.

This was the sort of nerve-wracking situation that had earned Cody his reputation.

As he listened to Rex's frantic plight, he made a decision.

"Strings, Coze, I want you to go to the other side of the plain and wait for them," he ordered. "They may need more cover fire. Tenby, charge the ship's weapons and swing 'em round towards the plain. We may need all the firepower we can muster."

The men acknowledged their tasks.

Now, all Cody could do was wait.

* * *

Rex watched as the terrorists came into view. He held his breath as they passed by the place where he and Bads were lying motionless in the undergrowth. When the front man drew even with Denal's location, Rex held up his hand in a fist, thumb pressed flat. When he lifted his thumb, both Bad and Denal pulled the pins.

One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand.

The two men tossed in unison into different parts of the group.

Neither Denal nor Bads stayed to see the results. They had their orders, and they both followed them by immediately breaking and running like fop-rabbits. They could hear blaster fire behind them, but they continued running.

Nearly three minutes later, Fives' voice came over their comms. "We see you now. You're passing through. It's less than five hundred meters to the edge of the plains."

"Do—you-see—the captain?!" Denal shouted.

"Yes," Fives answered. "They're not too far behind. Just keep running."

Bads drew up beside Denal, turned off his comm, and blurted out between pounding footfalls, "We should pull up here and add our firepower to the ambush!"

"Rex said to go straight through," Denal replied. "We have our orders!"

"But we can help stop them—"

"His goal is to get us out of here! Now, keep running!"

In just over a minute, they had come to the edge of the plain where Hardcase stepped out to greet them.

"Where are the others?" Hardcase asked.

"They're all coming," Denal replied, leaning over to catch his breath.

Bads nodded towards the plain. "Here come Strings and Coze."

As the two aircrew members approached, Strings—always the kind of jumpmaster who took a personal responsibility for those under his auspices—put a hand on Denal's shoulder. "Everyone okay?"

"We're alright."

"Sounds like we've got some action coming this way," Strings continued.

"Have you seen Commander Ki'weya and Blackie?" Bads asked.

"We passed them on the way out here." Again, it was Strings who answered. Coze had his attention firmly fixed on the treeline. "They're probably at the ship by now. It's clear behind us. You can keep on straight across the plain. The ship's on the far side at the designated extraction point. You three go on. We'll wait here for the rest."

"The captain ordered me to stay here," Hardcase replied. "He'd blow a gasket if I weren't here when he shows up."

"He wants as many of us aboard that ship and ready to go as possible," Denal stated.

"Well . . . he didn't tell us to run to the ship," Bads hemmed. "Technically, he said to just go to the plains. And, uh, you can never have enough firepower in an ambush."

"They also need bodies to protect the ship," Strings said firmly. "Commander Cody ordered us out here. And I will order you both back to guard the ship, if I must."

"No orders necessary, Master Sergeant. We're on our way back," Denal said. "Hardcase, we'll see you in a little bit. Try not to overdo it."

* * *

Rex was not convinced it was such a good idea to lead the enemy towards Leap Two's position anymore. The number of pursuers only seemed to grow, despite how many of them had been taken down. Had the entire fekking camp been emptied out to chase them down? Or had the jungle been full of patrols throughout the entire operation, and now they were simply joining in the pursuit?

Either way, Rex had only three men with him. He had two men waiting ahead in the jungle. And then there was Hardcase. True, Hardcase alone had the grit and weapons lust of an entire battalion all rolled into one body; but these were not good odds.

"Leap Two, abandon position and make for the extraction point," he ordered, trying to sound unhurried and at least as composed as Cody.

"Sir?" Fives sounded incredulous, as if he'd heard incorrectly.

"We won't be coming past your position," Rex replied.

"Captain—"

"That's an order, Fives."

"But we can see you, Captain! We can take out some of the—"

"Follow orders, Fives! Get back and defend the ship!"

From across the ambush lane, Fuse stood up, leaving his cover. "Fives, we need to do as he tells us. He must have a reason. I won't disobey the captain."

Fives hung for a moment, then muttered under his breath. "Fek and all . . . let's go." Into his comm, he simply acknowledged, "On our way to the ship."

Rex turned to his three companions. "We need to lead them away, in the wrong direction. We're going to have to split up. Pitch, you're with me. We're going to head back up the ridge, make them think the extraction point is above the treeline. Top, you and Bads go to ground here until we draw them off, then make for the extraction point. Pick up Hardcase on the way."

"Yes, Captain. But let us lead them off."

"Negative. Find someplace to go to ground. Pitch, let's go."

Over his helmet comm, Rex heard Cody's voice. "You two make it to the top of the ridge, and we'll come and get you."

"Too dangerous," Rex replied. "That would be exposing the ship in the wide open—"

Now, Commander Ki'weya's voice broke in. "I concur with Commander Cody. You're overruled, Captain. Get to the top of the ridge, and we'll come for you."

Rex sighed and gave a grudging, "Copy that."

Before they set off up the hillside, Pitch turned off his comm and snagged Rex by the elbow. "I have an idea. It's risky, but we're in a bit of a bind."

"I think we're ready to take any risk," Rex replied. "Let's hear it."

* * *

They weren't dispersing.

Fek and all, this did not look good.

Not only were the pursuers not following the signs of passage up towards the ridge, but they were milling around no more than fifty meters from where Top and Bads were hiding. They were jabbering amongst themselves, pointing, arguing with zealous gestures. It seemed as if they recognized that the trail led uphill, but that they weren't convinced that was the way they should go.

Eventually, a smaller group broke off and was dispatched up the hillside. At a motion from one who appeared to be a leader, the rest fanned out in the area, while another gaggle of about ten continued on towards the plain.

Top used a hand signal to communicate to Bads they were might have to make a run for it.

Up above on the hillside, Rex and Pitch had both seen that they were not being followed by the full body, but that was of little concern to them. Pitch's plan would take care of that. They just needed to reach the protection of the gully and hope that time did not run out for Tops and Bads.

Yet, that was precisely what was happening down below.

As the terrorists spread through the jungle, both men knew they had only seconds before they were spotted. If they didn't make a break for it now, they would be killed where they stood.

Top swallowed hard and steeled his determination. He knew breaking radio silence when the enemy was this close was akin to signing his own death certificate, but it had to be done.

"We're breaking," he announced.

"Fifteen more seconds!" Pitch implored.

"We don't have fifteen seconds!"

Tops and Bads sprang from their hiding place and were immediately spotted by the enemy. They squeezed off a quick round, sending the terrorists running for cover, before turning themselves to flee. Immediately, the jungle was filled with the sounds of fire.

Up above, Rex yelled into his comm. "Top! Bads! Get down! Get down!" He turned his head sharply to Pitch. "Do it!"

Pitch looked up the hillside at the gully, not ten meters away. "Get in the gully, Captain."

"Pitch! Do it!"

"Get in the damned gully, Captain!"

Rex scrambled up the last few meters. As he tumbled into the gully, he felt the air around him vibrate, then the sound of an explosion. Looking over the lip of the gully, he saw smoke and fire and debris billowing below, racing up the hillside. He reached out his hand to Pitch.

"Hurry!"

Pitch climbed over the shifting, trembling rocks.

"Give me your hand! Hurry!" Rex cried.

Pitched stretched his arm as far as he could and felt Rex's fingers wrap around his own. In the next instant, he was tumbling into the gully. A second later, the wave of combustion rolled over the top of them with searing heat. They hunkered down as low as they could get as destruction roiled around them. And then, five seconds later . . . it was over.

Pitch's plan had worked. A modified repro cap explosion, small radius, the deactivation of volatile proto-stile. Hastily concocted and perhaps a bit more devastating than anticipated. But now the only question was . . . had it stopped the pursuit? And at what cost?

Pitch sat up slowly. "You alright, Captain?"

"I'll know in a minute." He got to his feet and looked over the lip of the gully.

* * *

* combi - slang for FUBAR (otherwise known as Fekked Up Beyond All Recognition)


	85. Chapter 84

_**Dear Reader, Thank you to my reviewers: Darth Pancake, Meridian Pony, Sued13, Shadow Wanderer, The Unnamed Guest, and Undercoverdreamer 450. It makes me so happy to read the reviews and know folks are enjoying the tale. Uh, I hope everyone is still happy after this chapter. The quote at the beginning is from a song by Big Country. It has long been one of my favorite songs with amazing lyrics. I think it suits the clones very well. Happy reading! One more chapter to go in this little Kettrun Arc, and when I get back from Germany, it's off we go to the Citadel for a short bit. Peace, CS**_

Chapter 84 Soldiers in Search of a War

" _We lay the night in anguish, snakes drawn out by the tide.  
The compass of decision falls always on one side.  
We can do nothing more than move headlong through the gloom.  
The thorn between our lips is the missionary's tune.  
We stand as thick as vines, though the fruit is torn away.  
There is no beauty here, friend. Just death and dark decay.  
We save no souls. We break no promises. Yay-i-o!_

 _Lost Patrol  
_ B. Watson (Big Country)

* * *

" _Fek and all . . . eh . . . damn . . . "_

Bads could barely gather his thoughts. Everything hurt. Everything felt . . . disconnected. But if he'd been blown to pieces, he wouldn't be thinking at all. Maybe he was only partly torn apart.

Unh . . . and now he was shaking. He must have lost a lot of blood.

" _Bads, come on. Bads . . . come on. We've got to go . . . come on, come on."_

Bads opened his eyes to see Top staring down him, the signature Bespin rabbit image stretching above his visor.

"What the . . . fek, are we alive?"

"Not for long if we don't get moving."

Top was helping him to sit up. A quick glance around him showed a jungle bereft of foliage, the ground littered with bodies – dead and injured.

"Pitch's plan worked," Bads said.

"Yeah, but it's not over yet," Top cautioned. "Some of these bastards are still alive. And more are probably on the way. Come on, we need to get to the ship." He pulled Bads to his feet. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," Bads answered. "I just feel like—like, ugh, nothing fits right."

"Well, the back of your armor looks like it's seen better days," Top replied. "But it saved your life."

Bads reached a hand behind him, but instead of the usual smooth surface of the poly-stein, he felt the jagged, twisted edges of melted armor. He leaned forward to look at the back of Top's armor. "Wow, it saved yours, too."

"Yeah, thank the Force," Top said. "We can marvel about our armor later, but we've got to go – now." They began heading towards the jungle's edge. Top opened his comm. "Captain, are you and Pitch alright?"

"We're okay," Rex replied. "I can see both of you. Head for the ship."

"Yes, Sir." Top then added, "You can probably make it back down, Sir. We can take out whatever's left, long enough for you to get down."

"We'll head down further up the ridge. That area below us is going to be crawling with more of them soon," Rex replied. "Don't wait for us. Just go."

"Roger. We'll clear out any that might still be breathing on our way back."

Up above on the ridge, Rex surveyed the destruction below. "Pitch, you never cease to amaze me," he commented. "Look at this. You calculated it perfectly."

"It's a calling," Pitch replied. "It's my passion."

"I'm just glad you're on our side."

"Well, it may have done nothing more than buy us a minute or two more," Pitch replied. "Hopefully, that's enough time for everyone to get to the ship and get out of here."

"Us, included," Rex agreed. "Let's go."

* * *

"I'm leaving behind pieces of armor as we run," Bads said, trying to inject some sense of humor into the situation. "I'll be stark naked when we get to the ship."

"It'll be like looking in a mirror," Top replied. "Literally."

"That Pitch is something else," Bads remarked. "I thought I knew explosives, but he's a fekking genius."

"He is," Top replied. "But we're not out of this yet. He bought us time, but they won't give up the chase. We need to pick up the pace. We're almost to the edge of the jungle. I can see the plain."

Thirty seconds later, they encountered Hardcase who had been concealed twenty meters within the tree line and now stepped out to meet them. "Top. Bads. Are you alright? Where's the captain and Pitch?"

"We're okay," Top replied.

Strings and Coze emerged from their hiding places. "By the Force, what happened to your armor? It's completely melted in the back."

"Pitch happened to it," Top replied.

"Where is Pitch? And Rex?" Hardcase asked again with emphasis.

"They're coming down further up the ridge," Top replied. "We split up to try and slow down the enemy. Pitch did what he does best and blew a ton of them to smithereens. But it won't be long before more show up."

As he spoke, something exploded in the trees above them, and once more, the air was filled with blaster fire.

"Take cover!" Top shouted, diving into a nearby depression, Bads following right behind him.

" _Well, it didn't take them long to fekking regroup,"_ he thought ruefully. He opened his comm. "Commander Cody, we're at the edge of the plain. We're taking fire. Do you want us to try to hold them here?"

There was only the briefest pause before the response came back. "Continue towards the ship. We have a better chance of fighting them off if our firepower is concentrated. Plus, we have the ship's guns. Try to get here as fast as you can."

It was not an optimal answer, but everyone knew it was also not an optimal situation. The commander was making the best out of the worst, and now all that remained was for the rest of them to obey orders and make for the ship.

"You ready to make a run for it, Bads?"

Bads gripped Top's arm. "I can't. I'm hit."

Top was stunned. Bads hadn't screamed, hadn't cursed, hadn't given any indication he'd been injured. "Where?"

"My hip."

"Bads is hit!" Top cried out, then to Bads, "Can you still run?"

"I don't think so, Sir," came the trembling reply, spoken through gritted teeth.

"It'll be alright," Top assured him. "We're going to get out of this. I'll carry you, if I have to."

Top was contemplating what to do next when a light thump sounded to his left. He looked up to see a grenade sitting at nearly eye level about five meters away. Without any conscious thought, he turned his back to it, clutched Bads to him, drawing the wounded man's head down against his own chest, fell flat on the ground, and closed his eyes.

The force of the explosion passed mostly over them, pressed flat as they were in the shallow hole. Other than a sharp and momentary pain in his left calf, Top felt nothing of the explosion, except for the shock wave and the rubble it brought down on him and Bads.

"Bads? Are you alright?" he asked, raising his head.

Bads nodded.

"Top! Keep down! Do you hear me?! Stay down!" It was Hardcase's voice.

Top complied.

Strings and Coze tossed two white phosphorous grenades. Within a second, the sun-hot phosphorous erupted like some deadly flower. Smoke from the phosphorous and now burning underbrush rapidly created a floating haze of smoke, dirt and dust particles thick enough to obscure the enemy's view.

The two air crewmen rushed to where Top was hauling Bads to his feet.

"Take him! Take him!" Top ordered with urgency as a volley of blaster bolts came streaking through the curtain of debris.

Strings and Coze practically lifted Bads off the ground between them and were out onto the plain before another heartbeat could pass. Top and Hardcase emerged from the jungle seconds later, two hundred meters of waist-high grass stretching away before them.

Fifty meters into the plain, Top felt the pain in his lower leg. A piece of shrapnel or flying debris from the grenade's detonation must have sliced into the back of his leg. The muscle had been damaged. The pain was tolerable, but the weakness was quickly making itself known. The muscle would not endure much longer.

Meanwhile, the enemy, well-disciplined and determined, had gathered up its survivors and was moving quickly now, taking up several positions just within the jungle treeline. They poured a withering fire across the plains, figuring that density alone would catch at least some of the attackers. More reinforcements from the camp continued to join them.

Top had lost sight of Strings, Coze and Bads, but at least they had disappeared into the grass ahead of him. They were certainly headed in the right direction. Hardcase, on the other hand, had stopped several times to spray the treeline with blaster fire, and Top had lost track of him, as well.

And now, he was going to have to stop for a moment to give his leg a rest. He dropped down to one knee in the grass and listened to the melee going on around him. He could hear the sounds of the ship's guns as they sent bolts flying over the plain towards the treeline where the enemy was ensconced. And then there followed a peculiar swishing sound culminating in popping and crackling. It was a sound Top was not familiar with. After a few seconds, he rose again, hobbled another twenty or thirty yards, then took a knee once more. It was during this brief pause that the smell of smoke wafted past him.

" _Smoke?"_ He straightened up just enough to raise his visor above the top of the grass. _"Oh, great . . . "_

* * *

Kix had taken up a spot standing on the ship's wing. From this vantage point, and using binoculars, he could get a clear and expanded view over the plain. And with three of his squad mates out there, he felt more than just a commitment to the mission.

He had often been fearful on his brothers' accounts; they were, after all, prone to being impetuous—well, maybe not Jesse or Pitch, but certainly Top and Hardcase. They were, all four of them, selfless to a fault, ready to throw away their own lives in order to save another's. And they were the ultimate risk-takers. No job too difficult. No task too daunting. No risk not worth taking, if it were in the pursuit of victory.

Kix had grown used to spending a good portion of every battle wondering whether all—of any—of his brothers would return safely.

He was wondering that now. This mission had gone haywire since the beginning. From the unexpected appointment of Commander Ki'weya as mission commander to faulty or incomplete intelligence, to the presence of rhydonium . . . it had been one surprise after another, and Kix wondered how it could have been expected to end any other way than how it was ending now.

Two injured men. Another on the way. Those were not good numbers for such a small incursion.

He was following the progress of Strings and Coze across the plain, as they carried Bads in; but he had to admit that his attention lingered more on the progress of his two squad mates. Hardcase, in typical fashion, was making his retreat a costly one. He had swung slightly wide in a westerly direction as he crossed the plain, stopping every twenty or so meters to spatter the treeline with blaster fire.

Top was making a direct line for the ship, but clearly something was not right. Kix knew Top was as fast as the rabbit adorning his helmet; but as he watched his squad mate's progress through the field, he could detect an awkwardness to his gait.

"He's injured," he said out loud to no one but himself. He could inform Hardcase and direct him to divert and lend assistance. He was about to do just that when, from the treeline, a series of projectiles, like small rockets with blazing tails, burst across the plain with a swishing sound. They landed in various places across the grassy field, and within seconds, flames began to show.

"They're burning the field . . . " Kix gasped. His voice rose into a shout. "They're burning the field!"

And then, all hell broke loose.

* * *

"Oh, hell . . . Captain, this looks bad," Pitch breathed. "We can't get to the ship going across the plain. Everything's on fire."

Rex was one step ahead of him. He spoke into his comm. "Cody! Cody! Status report!"

"We're missing five, plus you two," Cody replied calmly. "An 808th assault element is six minutes out." A pause. "Do not—I repeat, do not try to get to the ship. Go back up on the ridge, and we'll come get you."

"Cody—"

"Cody out."

Rex struggled with himself for the next few seconds, then he turned to Pitch. "Let's go back up."

* * *

Kix leaped down from the wing as Strings and Coze arrived with Bads.

"Where are you injured?"

"My hip," came the strained reply.

"Get him inside," Kix ordered. He followed them, turning to take one more look out over the plain. He could now see Top, forty-perhaps fifty-meters away. No sign of Hardcase. "Damn you two . . . always trying to make me—"

His words were cut off by the sound and impact of an explosion in the field.

"They're launching grenades!" This from BB, who was acting as a lookout from the cockpit.

"Continue firing towards the tree line," Cody ordered calmly.

"That was awfully close," Ki'weya noted. He was standing at Cody's side. "Another twenty yards, and they would have hit the ship."

"The ship can withstand grenades, Commander," Cody replied. "I'm just hoping they're not packing something with a bit more strength."

"Not much to pin your hopes on, is it, Commander?" Ki'weya pressed. "You still have two men out there. Do you think they're going to survive all this? Fire, grenades, blaster shots?"

"You'd be surprised, Commander Ki'weya," Cody replied. "I wouldn't put anything past Top and Hardcase."

* * *

"Damn it . . . keep going . . . it's right there . . . keep going!" Top demanded of himself. The ship was less than fifty meters away. Mind over matter was the key here. Self-discipline. He could coax a little more from his injured leg. This was not the sort of trivial wound that was going to stop him.

To his left, the field was burning. He could feel the heat and taste the smoke. Even with his helmet filter on, the seals in his armor had been broken in Pitch's explosion, making the filters less effective. All around him, grenades were exploding, blaster bolts were whizzing by. Every time he straightened up and raised his head above the grass, he felt as if he were in a shooting gallery.

But he also knew that the fighting was getting closer to the ship, and if they did not get out of there soon, they might not make it out at all.

"One more good run," he told himself. "One more. It's not far."

Keeping hunched over, he began shuffling towards the ship again, while the field continued to be destroyed around him. He was closing the distance. Forty-five meters. Forty meters. He could see BB in the cockpit . . .

A sudden whistling sound told him some sort of munition was coming in. He dropped to the ground just as the force of the explosion sent the field around him erupting into the air.

* * *

Kix gave Bads a quick double-pat on the cheek, not necessarily as a gesture of comfort but as a test for shock. "The hypo should kick in in about twenty seconds. You'll be okay. It didn't hit the bone. I know it hurts like hell, but you'll be okay." Then to Strings. "Keep an eye on him."

Kix went back out and was horrified by how much the situation had deteriorated in just the last minute. There were at least two dozen patches of burning grass, craters of barren earth kicked up by the grenades, and plumes of billowing smoke spreading over the plain.

Neither Top nor Hardcase were anywhere to be seen.

And then suddenly, a splash of white appeared almost directly ahead of him, barely thirty yards out, in the direction in which he'd earlier been watching Top's progress.

Kix drew in a breath of relief. Top was accounted for. Now, where the hell was Hardcase?

An odd whistling sound drew his attention. He instinctively jumped back behind one of the ship's landing struts as the munition landed, but the impact did not reach the ship. When he looked up again, the field where only seconds earlier he'd seen Top . . . the place was blasted and burning.

"No . . . no . . . NO!" Kix could barely catch his breath. "Top!" He sprang forward, running headlong into the field. "Top! Top!"

"Kix! Kix, get back here!" Cody called after him. "That's an order! Kix!"

KIx ignored him. He raced through the grass, not even attempting to conceal himself.

Cody was furious beyond words, but the sudden appearance of Hardcase beside him helped allay some of that fury.

"What the hell was that? That was no grenade!" Hardcase blurted out.

"It was a mortar," Cody replied coolly, adding with well-honed control. "And I think we've lost Top."

Hardcase felt as if he'd misheard him. There was no way Top could be gone. Damn, the guy was indestructible. He immediately opened his helmet comm.

"Top? Top, come in! Top!"

"Kix ran out there after him," Cody went on. "I don't think he's going to find anything, and he's going to end up getting himself killed."

"I can go bring him back."

"You have one minute."

From the cockpit, BB's voice came through their comms very clearly. "Commander! The firing . . . it's stopped."

They all stood still to listen. The pilot was right. While the sounds of the burning fires roared across the plain, they no longer had the accompaniment of blaster fire or explosions.

"Do you think the 808th is here and has taken them out?" Hardcase asked.

Before Cody could answer, BB spoke again. "They're coming! I can see the enemy coming across the field! They're headed this way!"

"Then that's it," Cody said grimly. "We've got to go. Now."

"But Commander—" Hardcase began.

"Don't argue with me. Get onboard."

"I—I can't leave . . . " Hardcase swallowed down his protest. He'd never disobeyed orders before. He wasn't going to start now. "Yes, Commander—"

As he spoke, a splash of green and black flashed past them in the direction of the field.

"Oh, I don't believe this . . . " Cody groaned. Things just kept going from bad to worse.

* * *

Kix might have been terrified, but he was also so well trained that the terror could do nothing more than add to his adrenaline. And the fear itself was not because of what was going on around him; it was on account of what he might find. It was inconceivable that Top had been killed. But the more he shouted into his comm only to be met with silence, the more likely it grew that the inconceivable had happened.

He picked his way through the grass, coming to the scorched and blasted earth where the mortar had hit. There was no body. No pieces of body. No fragments of armor. And for a moment, this gave him hope; he renewed his shouting with increased vigor, moving into the grass surrounding the impact site.

And then he found himself being yanked violently to the ground.

"What the fek are you doing?!"

Kix, stunned, could not find his voice.

"What are you doing out here, damn it?!"

Top's gruff, brutal manner slowly brought Kix back, and he managed to reply, "I—I thought you were injured, so I came . . . I came . . . " Then the bemusement turned to indignant anger. "Why the fek didn't you answer my comm?! I thought you were dead, idiot!"

"Because it's broken, you tat-wit! Damn you, Kix! Now, I have to get us both safely to the ship!"

"I saw you! I know you're injured," Kix rebuffed. "I can carry you. Come on, over my shoulder."

"The hell with that," Top refused. "You can lend me an arm, but I sure as hell ain't going over your shoulder."

"I don't care how we do it, but we need to do something fast," Kix replied, taking Top's arm and draping it around his neck. "We don't have any time left—"

The grass behind them parted. A trio of terrorists emerged.

Neither clone was armed, Top having lost his weapon in the explosion, Kix having left his behind when he'd run out to find his squad mate. But it became evident very quickly that the terrorists had no intention of killing the two men outright; and the prospect of being taken prisoner, tortured, and used for propaganda was more galling than the thought of death on the battlefield.

Well, if they were going to try and take them prisoner, they would get a good fight for their efforts.

But there was no fight. There was no prisoner-taking.

Instead, there was Commander Ki'weya.

It wasn't even fair, really. The padawan appeared to drop from the sky in a somersault, and with a single slice of his light saber, cut all three assailants in half. Then, without any flourish or fanfare, he turned to the two clones.

" _Now_ , we need to go. There are hundreds of them coming across the field." He reached down, hoisted Top over his shoulder—meeting no protests—and the three of them made for the ship.

* * *

"Commander Cody, this is Captain Snap. We're coming in 075. I show that you're still on the ground."

"We're lifting off now," Cody replied. "I've still got two men out there, up on the ridge."

"We'll take the ground battle from here," Snap said. "But let us get some of these rats back into their holes before you try taking off. Right now, you'd be a nice big target."

"Copy that. Snap, there are a lot of them – hundreds, I think."

"This was their largest training camp," Snap came back. "They probably have a couple thousand men in reserve, but don't worry. We've got it now."

* * *

"Looks like the 808th has arrived, Sir," Pitch remarked.

"Good ole Snap," Rex nodded. "You can always count on him. We were in ARC training together, you know."

"Yes, Sir, so I'd heard," Pitch replied. "We never got to meet him."

"Well, that's because you were too busy making my job all the more exciting," Rex said.

"I think, these days there's enough excitement to go around, wouldn't you agree, Sir?"

Rex considered. "Yeah, you could call it that. Personally, I don't like being set up for failure."

"It's not a total failure, is it, Captain? We did blow up a lot of the camp, and we've sure as hell killed a lot of terrorists tonight . . . today. It's morning."

"Morning on another day of fighting." Rex's voice was almost whimsical.

"Huh, what would we be without the fighting?" Pitch asked.

Rex took a deep breath. "We'd be soldiers in search of a war."

* * *

"General Skywalker, we were not expecting you. I take it you're here to check up on your team."

General Medge, the Sixth Army Commander, had been trying to think of how to handle this unexpected, though not unwelcome, visit ever since Skywalker had first contacted the fleet to request landing permission. Unlike General Pehna'qua, Medge actually admired Skywalker's fortitude and aggressive spirit. Skywalker was a field general, like himself, and he appreciated that.

Medge had received Skywalker in his private quarters aboard the Portica, the former's flagship. His greeting had been accompanied by a proffered glass of Salus Pen, one of the finer spirits to be found in this region of space.

Anakin accepted the glass. "That's exactly why I'm here. It's a dangerous mission."

"You will be glad to know the mission is complete."

Anakin inclined his head slightly. "I thought it might be by the time I got here. Was it a success?"

Medge was particular in his response. "In certain respects, yes. In others, far from it."

This answer raised the concern in Anakin's heart. "My men?"

"All alive. You had some injuries. None too serious." A pause during which Medge took a swig from his own glass. "The 808th, on the other hand, took heavy losses covering the team's retreat." He paced over to the window and looked down at the planet below. "If there was one thing this mission demonstrated, it was that we are woefully deficient in the intelligence department."

"How so?" Anakin asked.

"There was rhydonium on site. And apparently, a great deal of it." He shook his head. "That necessitated a change to the entire plan. And it almost cost the entire team their lives." He turned to face his fellow general. "As it stands, though, your men did blow up about sixty percent of the structures. They killed hundreds of terrorists. The camp will never be able to be used again. So, in that sense it was a success." A deep sigh. "It was a failure in both intelligence and the fact that more than three-quarters of the remaining troopers in the 808th died to make sure your men made it out safely."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I know how it feels. It's happened to me, as well."

"You'll be glad to know your men comported themselves with the utmost professionalism. They're good. Everything I've ever heard about the 501st . . . they lived up to it."

"Where are they now?"

"They're on board the Stellis, still debriefing, I would imagine. I can have General Shyfa show you to them."

"Thank you, General Medge. I'd appreciate that."

* * *

"You're a lucky man. This will heal up nicely in about a week, though it will take at least a month to get to full strength again. Here's an order for daily bacta sessions, and a two-week convalescence."

"Thanks, doc," Top said gratefully, sliding off the table to his feet.

"Now, you need to give it some rest, let it heal," the doctor added, noting the vigor with which his patient had jumped off the table.

"I'll make sure he takes it easy." This from Kix who was standing near the doorway.

"Very good," the doctor nodded. "Do you need help getting to the barracks?"

"I'll help him." Again, Kix.

They stepped out into the hallway.

Kix gave a slight grin. "He said you were lucky. He has no idea just how lucky."

Top was silent. Uncharacteristically silent.

"Does it still hurt?" Kix asked. "You're limping. I can help you—"

In the blink of an eye, Top had turned and slammed him against the wall. "Don't you ever do that again! Do you hear me?!"

Kix regarded him evenly without speaking.

"Why did you do that? Why did you run out there? You could have gotten yourself killed." Top had drawn close enough that Kix could see the trembling of the muscles of his jaw as he fought to maintain his composure.

Again, Kix was silent.

"You'd better say something, because you scared me to death down there. Were you _trying_ to get blown apart?!"

"You're asking me that?" Kix finally spoke up.

"You're damned right I am."

"I saw that you were injured—"

"I wasn't!"

Kix regarded him incredulously. "Yes, you were! How can you stand here and deny—"

"It—it wasn't serious! I could have made it back—damn it . . . damn it, LB, you shouldn't have done that," Top groaned. "If anything had happened to you . . . it would have been all my fault."

Kix regarded him with a gentle smile. "I'm a medic, Top. It's what I do."

"Well—well next time, be more—be more careful!" Top replied, some of his usual bluster pushing through.

"We both made it. That's what's important," Kix said. He reached up and wrapped his fingers around Top's forearms while his brother still held him pinned to the wall. "You always say we live together, we fight together, we die together. Well, it sure looked like you were trying your damned best to break that promise."

"I was trying to get back to the ship," Top replied. "And there you were, thinking you needed to protect me. That's not the way it works, LB."

Kix scowled. "I don't know why you think it's okay for you and the others to worry about me, but I'm not allowed to worry about you. Why do you—all of you—why do you insist on treating me differently?"

"Because you _are_ different," Top stated. "You've always been different, LB."

"That doesn't mean I need protecting—"

"Oh yes, you do. You do. And I'll tell you why," Top insisted. "You're not just any other soldier, LB. You're a medic – the best medic in the battalion, and we can't afford to lose you—"

"So, I'm a medic. That's not why you all act the way you do—"

"You're right. It's not. So, let's be honest. You know your history. We know your history. We were there! We all know you're . . . emotional and impulsive—"

"So are you, and that combination seems to work for you," Kix cut him off.

"That's because I know when to let my impulses take over and when to rein them in. You don't. You just say what you want to say when you want to say it, do what you want to do when you want to do it; and you don't think through the consequences because you only live in the moment. Didn't you learn a damned thing on Kamino?"

Kix looked at him with warmth. "I know that you're the only reason I'm here. You and the rest of the squad. But Kamino is long behind us. Saber Squad is my family. What else do I need to know? Did you really think I could stand by and do nothing when I saw you were injured? You should know better."

Top lowered his head, forehead to forehead, as was his way. "Just promise me you won't do it again."

"You know I can't promise that, Top," Kix replied honestly.

"I know." Top sighed. "That's why I love you, LB. You think about everyone but yourself. I'll never understand it, but I love you for it. We all do."

* * *

The cantine was as good a place as any.

At least it had a large viewport from which one could view the starscape. Hell, even Kettrun, the terrorist haven, was beautiful and gem-like from space.

And he could have a drink, too, if he wanted one.

Eh, but he didn't want one. Not right now. The truth was, what he most desired was a few hours of sleep. Just a few. But the Stellis was an older model battleship with only sleeping tubes for its clone crew. Hell, even the clone officers only rated sleeping tubes.

Rex hadn't slept in a tube since Kamino. He sure as hell didn't feel like slipping into one now, no matter how tired he might be.

He'd been to the ship's infirmary earlier. Cody and Top had already been released with a two-week convalescence order and one-week of daily bacta therapy. Blackie and Bads were also faring well, due to be released in a day or two with slightly longer convalescence.

All things considered, they were lucky. Things could have been much worse.

For the 808th, they _had_ been much worse.

He was reminded of that now as Jedi General Shyfa joined him.

"Am I disturbing you, Captain?"

"Not at all, Sir," Rex replied.

They stood together without speaking for several moments, looking out the window and watching the planet rotating silently below them.

At last, Shyfa spoke, "I'm sorry how things turned out down there."

"So am I," Rex replied. "I'm . . . sorry about the 808th."

"They were able to get you and your men safely out of there," Shyfa said. "That was their task." A pause. "Sixth Army has already decided to reconstitute the battalion."

"I'm glad." It was a reflexive response. The truth was Rex had no feelings one way or the other about reconstituting a battalion that had lost over eighty percent of its men. It was becoming a more common occurrence throughout the Grand Army as the war wore on.

"And you know . . . the battalion will need a new first-in-command," Shyfa put forth gently.

Rex gave an imperceptible nod.

"You and Commander Cody knew Captain Snap well," the Jedi general ventured. "He told me you were all in ARC training together. He was a fine officer . . . and a good man."

"He was," Rex agreed, not willing to discuss the loss any further.

"He's going to be hard to replace," Shyfa went on. "I relied very heavily on him. My padawan thought the world of him." A pause. "To tell the truth, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Rex regarded him sidelong. "About Captain Snap?"

"No . . . about Lieutenant Top."

And suddenly, Rex understood. "You want him to replace Captain Snap."

"The battalion's going to need a special kind of leader to join together what's left with the new troopers that will be coming on board," Shyfa went on. "I would like a by-name request for Lieutenant Top, but I won't put one in unless you agree."

Rex hesitated. This was the last thing he wanted to have on his mind, and yet here it was, and he could not pretend the conversation had not taken place. "Have you talked to Top about it?"

"No. Again, I wanted to speak to you first." Shyfa took a few steps back into the interior of the room. "My padawan, Ki'weya, is a very difficult man to impress, but your lieutenant managed to do so. It was his suggestion. The question is . . . are you willing to release him to be reassigned?"

Rex sighed. "The question is whether or not Top wants to be reassigned." He rubbed his hands together. "He's very attached to his squad. I'm not sure he would agree to go anywhere without them." A pause. "And I'm not sure I could bear to see him go."

"Will you think about it? Ask him?"

Rex nodded slowly. "I will."

General Shyfa's wrist-comm buzzed.

"General Shyfa, this is bridge ops. Please report to hangar bay 4 to greet General Skywalker."

Rex's head came up.

"This is General Shyfa. On my way." He looked to Rex. "I wasn't expecting this. Care to join me, Captain?"

"Definitely, Sir."

 ** _NOTES:_**

 ** _So for those of you who were concerned about me killing off a character (most of you thought it would be Top), I hope you're not disappointed. I am notoriously fond of my OC clones and rarely would I be able to kill one off if I have spent a good deal of time developing him. Top falls into that category._**

 ** _The scene with Top and Kix outside the infirmary is one that I like very much, and when I do finally get around to telling Saber Squad's story, it will become clear why his squad mates are so protective of him at the same time as conceding that he is a better man than any of them._**

 ** _And lastly . . . Ki'weya turned out not to be so very bad._**


	86. Chapter 85

_**Dear Reader, A final chapter to close out the Kettrun mini-arc. I hope you enjoy! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 85 The Decision

" _The day we meet again, I'll be waiting there for you,  
where the mist of time is lifting, see it rising in the air,  
like the shadow I was chasing, when I looked, it wasn't there."_

 _The Day We Meet Again  
_ Justin Hayward

* * *

Anakin almost felt embarrassed when he saw Rex approaching with Jedi Master Shyfa.

His first-in-command looked brilliant as always: composed, professional, energetic, up for anything.

Not that Anakin was fooled for one moment that Rex would ever show him any face other than the one he was now seeing. Rex had made it a point of pride never to give in to any semblance of weakness. He would always rise to the occasion, ready to fulfill his general's expectations and then some.

And so to see him striding briskly across the hangar floor, ramrod straight, amber eyes alert and confident – this was nothing new to Anakin. This was the Rex he knew, a man who could hold himself high after a terribly botched mission—though through no fault of his own—a man who had an uncanny ability to move from one battle to the next without dwelling on the past. Even among clones, Rex was remarkable in this capacity.

All these attributes . . . seeing them so prominently on display, Anakin began to wonder if perhaps his fear had been unfounded after all. In fact, looking at him now, there was not even the slightest hint of misgiving.

"Master Skywalker," Shyfa greeted him with as much pleasantness as the situation would allow.

Anakin actually inclined his head in deference to Shyfa's seniority as a Jedi. "Master Shyfa. It's good to see you." He looked at his first-in-command. "You, too, Rex."

"Sir." Rex's expression belied his bewilderment at his general's visit – an expression which Anakin ignored for the moment.

They began walking back across the hangar.

"I can't thank you enough for the use of your men," Shyfa began. "I can see you spared nothing in giving us your best."

"I'm sorry the mission didn't turn out the way you'd planned," Anakin replied.

"It was . . . half successful." A pause. "Though I feel the cost was too high."

"Well, you know what my thoughts were. I wanted to blow the place from out in orbit," Anakin pointed out, adding, "Good thing I was overruled. Igniting the rhydonium would have been a disaster."

"Mm. The disaster was not even knowing there was rhydonium on site," Shyfa came back. "How could such a detail be missed?"

"Intel isn't a perfect science," Anakin replied.

"You're right," Shyfa agreed. "But if we hope to win this war, we will have to get better with ours." A pause. "Your men were superb. Despite the rhydonium, they still managed to destroy most of the base. The 808th helped clean up what was left, including the rhydonium. It's being transferred to a facility . . . it will be made inert. But according to your men, some of it was taken out by ship prior to us getting there."

"That's a scary thought," Anakin noted.

"Indeed."

Several seconds passed in silence, then Shyfa spoke again. "I take it you would like to see your men."

"That's why I'm here."

"I think I can turn you over to Captain Rex. He can show you to them."

"Thank you, Master Shyfa," Anakin said. "And again . . . I'm sorry about the 808th."

Shyfa nodded, then to Rex, "Remember our conversation. I will see you before you leave."

Anakin waited until Shyfa had moved a good distance ahead of them before asking, "What was that about?"

As much as Rex would have preferred to defer conversation of this topic, he dared not put off his commanding general, especially given his respect for him. He drew in a deep breath and went straight to the point. "Captain Snap was killed in the assault. General Shyfa would like Top to replace him."

Right away Anakin understood the dilemma.

"I see," he said quietly, adding after several seconds' contemplation, "What does Top think about it?"

"I haven't spoken to him yet," Rex replied. "General Shyfa wanted to get my approval first before he put in the request."

Anakin could hear in his captain's voice the difficulty this was causing him.

"Even if you decline, it will still be up to GAR Headquarters to fill the vacancy," Anakin pointed out. "Top could be reassigned anyway."

"Yes, but it's much less likely when they have a huge pool to choose from," Rex replied. A sigh. "Still, I haven't decided yet whether to agree or not. I have to talk to Top first. This is really his decision."

"Do you honestly think he'd be able to tear himself away from his squad?" Anakin posed. "I'm surprised he managed to be without them for the six weeks of ARC training."

"That is my main concern, Sir," came the reply. They exited the hangar for the corridor. "He'd make a great first-in-command. They'd be hard-pressed to find anyone better, but . . . can he do it without them?" A pause. "Or maybe the more appropriate question is, can they do it without him?"

Anakin nodded his understanding. "When did General Shyfa need a decision?"

"Before we leave," Rex answered. "And I guess our departure would be up to you, General." The captain regarded him curiously for a moment. "May I ask, Sir, what made you decide to come here?"

"I wanted to see how you all were doing," Anakin replied. "I was ready to assist, if needed." A shrug. "It was all over by the time I got here."

Rex found this to be a flimsy explanation, and so he merely gave a nod of acknowledgment that Anakin recognized right away as an expression of doubt.

"I know that look, Rex," Anakin stated. "You don't believe me? Why else would I have come here?"

"You've sent different elements of the battalion off on separate missions many times, General. I don't recall you going after us on any of those missions. I was just curious about what made this one different," Rex replied honestly.

"Maybe it's because I was on leave and had the spare time," Anakin replied with a subtle poking grin, knowing all along that he could never tell Rex the real reason he had seen fit to come after him.

Rex, in a moment of cockiness—the sort of moment he knew he could occasionally get away with—replied in a magnanimous manner, "I guess I can accept that explanation."

Anakin was reminded of just why he placed such high stock in his first-in-command. "Good. So, I think you'd better go have that talk with Top. And Rex, I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but . . . if he goes, the rest of the squad isn't going with him. I can't afford to lose all of them at once."

"Understood, Sir."

"And tell your men, we're departing at 1900 tomorrow. Your mission here is done."

* * *

"It was just one mistake after another, Jesse. I'm surprised we weren't all killed. It's a good thing you weren't here to see it." Hardcase was his usual animated self, full of histrionics, overblown gestures, and bluster to make anyone within earshot perk up and listen. As it turned out, the only people nearby to hear him were his squad mates.

The four physically present members of Saber Squad were in one of the Portica's two recreational holo-transmission stations. On the other end of their communication was Jesse, listening to the story of the disastrous mission, although the way Hardcase told it, it sounded more like an adventure tale.

"They weren't really mistakes," Pitch pointed out. "Intel just missed one very crucial piece of information."

"Yes, one crucial piece that could have blown half the planet sky-high—" Hardcase began.

"You're exaggerating, as usual," Pitch interjected.

"I'm just glad everyone made it," Jesse said. "How's Commander Cody?"

"Okay. They gave him two weeks' convalescence," Top replied. "Huh, like he's going to obey that."

"Like you're going to obey yours?" Kix prodded with a smile.

"Oh, he'll obey it," Jesse said assuredly. "Won't you, Top?"

"I don't think I have a choice," came the reply. "The muscle has to heal. I'll have to keep quiet."

Jessie turned his expectant gaze to the other three. "So he says. Make sure he keeps his word."

At this, Hardcase let out a short bark of laughter. "Huh! As if any of us have any sway over him."

This made Jessie smile. "Well then, Kix, pull your medic credentials on him."

Kix returned the grin. "I'll keep an eye on him."

At that moment, the door to the transmission station opened, admitting their captain.

They all got immediately to their feet.

"Carry on," Rex said, then to Jessie, "How are things on Coruscant?"

"There's been a bit of excitement in the Senate, Sir; but nothing that really involved us. Nothing worth reporting right now," Jessie replied.

Rex nodded. "Very good." A pause. "Top, I'd like a word with you."

Top followed his captain out of the room, casting a "what did I do now?" glance at his brothers. Yet, as he entered the corridor, he could not think of anything he'd done wrong on this mission, other than show his obstinance—and unorthodoxy—to Commander Ki'weya.

Hmmm . . . maybe he had been the tiniest bit disobedient . . .

"You know I don't like to waste time," Rex began directly as they walked. "So, I'm going to come straight to the point. General Shyfa wants you to take over for Captain Snap. He wants you to be the 808th's new first-in-command."

A long silence ensued as the two men continued down the corridor.

At last, Top said, "I didn't think there was anything left of the 808th. Not much, at least."

"They've got less than thirty percent of their manpower remaining," Rex replied. "But they're going to reconstitute the battalion, and General Shyfa told me personally he would like you to come on board."

Top chuckled slightly. "He might want to run that by his padawan. I don't think Commander Ki'weya would be too keen on me being assigned to any unit he's a part of."

"Actually, it was Commander Ki'weya who suggested you to General Shyfa," Rex informed him. "Apparently, you impressed him, and I imagine that's a hard thing to do." A pause. "Of course, you'd have to ask yourself if you think you can work with someone like Ki'weya."

"One consideration among many," Top replied. Several more seconds passed in silence. "When do you need an answer?"

"We're leaving tomorrow at 1900. General Skywalker is here. I think he wants us back before 6th Army gets any more ideas." It was a feeble attempt at humor, but it did not last, for the look on his face was one of seriousness. "But for right now, there's only one idea . . . one officer. And the decision is yours to make."

"Not exactly the kind of decision I ever thought I'd be making," Top admitted. "I always thought it'd be the army telling me where to go, and I'd just do it. I didn't think I'd have a choice."

"Most don't get a choice," Rex replied. "But General Shyfa won't force your reassignment. He only wants you to come to the 808th if that's what you want, too."

Top was thoughtful. "It'd be a difficult job, putting them back together after all they've been through."

Rex's own thoughts went back to the Battle of Teth and the decimation of the 501st . . . the first such horrific loss of life under his command. He knew well how it felt to try and pull together the last strands of a once-strong fabric. But he knew it could be done . . .

. . . with the right man at the helm.

"Yes, it would," Rex confirmed. "Pulling something out of the ashes is one of the hardest jobs a clone commander can ever have." A pause. "And it's a job you were cut out for." Seeing the questioning expression Top now turned towards him, he went on. "Top, you're a natural leader. You don't even have to work for it. You can inspire anyone to believe in you, to follow you. That's what the 808th is going to need more than anything now." He gave a slight grin. "They need the bravado and the . . . exaggerated spirit that no one does better than you. They need someone to build up the ones remaining and . . . blend in the new ones coming on board. Top, you're smart, you're one of the best soldiers there is, and to be honest, you should have been assigned a command straight out of ARC training. You're being given a completely broken battalion, but . . . putting things back together is something you've shown yourself to be the best at."

"It sounds like you think I should accept the position," Top ventured.

"That's your decision," Rex insisted, "But if you're asking my opinion, then yes, I think you should accept it. They're going to need someone like you." A pause. "If you think you can tolerate Commander Ki'weya, then . . . yes, I think you should take it."

"And, uh . . . I guess the rest of Saber Squad would stay here?" There was a sad expectancy in Top's voice.

"Yes," Rex replied. "I couldn't let the whole squad be reassigned. Top, it will be hard enough to see you go. The others will stay here."

Top nodded slowly. "I'll have an answer for you by morning, Captain." He added hastily, "And please, Sir, don't say anything about this to the rest of the squad. I don't want them trying to influence me."

"You have my word."

* * *

Denal grimaced.

For crying out loud . . .

This was his fourth trip to the holo-transmission stations in the last hour, and both were still occupied. At least the occupants of station one had changed a few times. The occupants of station two . . .

. . . well, what could be expected from Saber Squad? The five of them were as tight as a Pesirisher cork screw.

Not that Saber Squad had a premium on brotherly connection. Denal would put his own manner of devotion up against theirs any time. And, in his own estimation, his bond was all the greater because the brother to whom he felt the closest was not a squad mate, not a batcher, not even a pod mate.

Denal, having been one of those exceptional cadets for whom grand opportunities seemingly opened up without effort, had been assigned to the Escape and Evasion School directly from the cadet corps. He'd been the only one among his entire pod – his entire 40,000-man group—to be chosen for such a prestigious position. He'd taken great pride in his assignment and almost immediately formed the sort of brotherly bond that was necessary to excel in such a competitive environment.

But it wasn't until CT-611 was assigned as Denal's sideman that a feeling of family had actually begun to take hold. CT-611 had come from the front lines – a combat artillery unit – and he had brought with him all the sense of camaraderie and male bonding that such units possessed in abundance. In the world of E&E, he'd needed the guidance of an older brother figure, someone to help him navigate through the bizarre emotions wrought by the necessity to rough house his own genetic equals.

They'd been together when then-Lieutenant Rex had come through the school; they'd been his escorts to and from torture, and the ultimate springboard behind the termination of the brutal Captain Skidz. When the newly minted Captain Rex had requested their reassignment to the 501st, both men had jumped at the opportunity. And based on an incident that had occurred on their very first day as members of the 501st, the captain had fittingly bestowed the name of "Back Up" upon CT-611 – a name which had been cause for embarrassment at first but later came to be worn as an emblem.

Denal and Back Up had been every bit as inseparable as the members of Saber Squad since coming to the 501st. They were bound together by the recognition of what they had been a part of, the ghastly torture and abuse that they had witnessed and permitted firsthand. And their dedication to Captain Rex was as complete, solid, and unwavering as their dedication to each other.

It was Back Up whom Denal had been waiting to contact, to let him know all was well, for surely news of the botched mission was starting to leak out.

But at the rate the holo stations were being used, he might do just as well to wait until he was back with the rest of the battalion and impart the details to Back Up in person.

He decided to wait it out just a bit longer, but this time he would not go all the way to the sleeping tubes. There was a port observation lounge not far from the holo stations. He could pass the time there and maybe actually get to have a few moments of peace to enjoy the starscape.

When he went inside, he had expected to be the lounge's only occupant. But to his surprise, there was one other person present. A person he knew well.

"Lieutenant Top, I'm surprised to see you in here. I thought you'd be in the holo-station with the rest of Saber Squad. I just saw them still in there," he greeted.

"I was in there earlier," Top replied. "Just out here to take a breather. And, uh, it's okay for you to call me just Top. I've told you that a hundred times."

"I know," Denal grinned, sitting down beside him before the large viewing window. "But you're a lieutenant, and I'm a sergeant. Just trying to maintain proper protocol."

"Well, you've been around longer than I have, you know?"

"Only by a matter of months," Denal replied.

An awkward silence followed which Denal recognized as highly uncharacteristic of his companion.

"Is everything alright, Lieutenant?" Denal inquired. "I don't think I've ever seen you this quiet or serious."

Top waited several seconds before speaking. "I have a decision to make, and . . . I'm not really sure what to do."

Denal looked pensively at him. "It can't be any harder than the decisions you had to make down there. That was a cluster. We're lucky any of us made it out alive."

"Well . . . we all may have made it out alive, but not everyone did," Top reminded him. "If the 808th hadn't come in and saved our asses, we'd all be hanging from the trees right now." A pause. "They took heavy losses, all on account of us."

"Aren't all front-line units like that?" Denal pointed out. "One unit makes a sacrifice so another can complete its mission. One man makes a sacrifice so his brothers will live. That's one thing I've learned in the 501st. The most important person is the one right next to you."

Top grinned. "Not bad for a guy who's never served alongside his own batchers."

"My family are the brothers I find on my left and right, no matter what the unit is," Denal replied. "That's how it was at E&E. That's how it is here in the 501st." He gave a one-sided shrug. "My batchers will always be special to me, but I know, going forward, that I would first choose to serve under Captain Rex over any other consideration."

Top chuckled. "You're not making my decision any easier."

"Considering I don't even know what the decision is, how could I possibly even try to make it easier?" Denal quipped. "Anything you care to talk about, LT?"

Top eyed him for a long moment.

Denal was the picture-perfect clone non-commissioned officer. Everything about him was template. The hair, in both color and cut; the complete lack of any distinguishing marks such as tattoos or even scars; the intense but even expression. Denal was the sort of man who had no desire to be noticed for anything other than his abilities. He held no animus against his brothers of a more flamboyant nature. It was simply that he, himself, could not be bothered with originality for its own sake. Creativity was, to his mind, an internal thing, manifesting in outward behavior, not appearance.

"I've been offered first-in-command of the 808th," Top said at last.

Denal appeared, for the briefest moment, to be prepared to say one thing, but to then opt for another. "That's quite an honor."

Top nodded slowly. "They're going to build it back up, and Commander Ki'weya apparently suggested I would be a good fit to oversee the rebuilding."

"I can see why," Denal agreed. "You'd do a good job." He was careful with his inflection. "What about the rest of your squad? Would they be going with you?"

"No, Captain Rex made that clear."

"What does he think about it?"

"He told me . . . he said this was the kind of thing I'm made for, more or less, building up things that have been broken," Top replied.

"He's right," Denal agreed. "Have you talked to your squad?"

"Not yet. I have to make this decision without them," Top said firmly.

Denal suddenly had a sense of knowing. "It sounds to me like you've already made the decision and are now just trying to figure out how to tell them."

Top turned to regard him with a bit of wonder. "You definitely know how to read a man, Sergeant."

"Well, you're not a hard one to read, Lieutenant," Denal replied lightly. "And I can tell you, the moment you walk in and bring up the subject . . . your squad mates are going to already know your decision. They'll be able to read it in your expression."

"Well then . . . maybe I won't have to actually say the words," Top frowned. "Because with all you seem to know about me, Sergeant, you must also know that I'm a big, huge sap."

Denal grinned. "I don't think that's the word most of us would use, Sir. But, uh, yeah, I know what you mean."

Top pushed up to his feet. "I guess I'd better go tell the captain."

Denal rose with him. "I'll be sorry to see you go, Lieutenant. You're one of the very best." He smiled sincerely, "But _Captain_ Top has a nice ring to it."

"Yeah, it does," Top agreed. "Keep this to yourself for now?"

"Of course, Sir."

* * *

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"Yes, Sir. There was never really any doubt, Captain. I knew there was only one answer. I think I'm needed here."

Rex had not expected a decision so soon, but he found that now that the decision had been made, he preferred the impending sense of loss over the aggravation of waiting.

"You won't be coming back with us," Rex stated. "You'll pull your convalescence here. That'll give you a chance to familiarize yourself with how things are done before you actually have to jump in." Rex eyed him with a warning. "And I do expect you to take your full convalescence."

"I will, Captain."

Rex took a long, hard, assessing look at him – one of his top officers, certainly his most brazen and daring, not to mention impetuous and a bit fool-hardy. "By the Force, I must be crazy for agreeing to this," he said. "If they were trying to reassign you, I'd fight like hell to keep you here. But . . . they asked, and . . . you accepted. I don't want to stand in the way of that. I know you're the best thing they could have asked for."

"Thank you, Sir."

"You'd better go tell the others."

Top nodded. It was not something he was looking forward to.

* * *

"You're all still here in the fekking holo station? For the love of—how much more can there be to talk about?" Top boomed, bursting into the room.

"Where have you been for the last hour?" Hardcase demanded.

"The captain must have really been ticked off to be yelling at you all this time," Pitch grinned.

"He wasn't yelling at me," Top blustered back. "We had something to discuss."

"For over an hour?" Kix challenged.

"It was important," Top replied, and something in his tone of voice, the turn of his countenance, was detectable to Jessie, even across the distorted image of the holocom.

"What is it, Top?" came the inquiry.

"I, uh, I have some news," Top said. "Something I have to tell you."

"Go on," Hardcase invited. "We're listening."

Top looked around at the waiting, expectant faces. The only one who looked like he was taking this seriously was Jessie. The others seemed to think that some great joke or concocted tale was in the offing.

 _Make it fast. Be direct._

"I've been offered first-in-command of the 808th."

The silence fell like a shroud over the room. No one spoke. No one moved. As was as if whatever life force had animated the souls in that room had been sucked straight out. Did they not hear him? Did they not believe him? Or maybe they did believe him, and that was the reason for their silence. Why weren't they saying something? Anything?

"They, uh, they're reconstituting the battalion, and they need someone to take Captain Snap's place," he went on without prompting. "General Shyfa asked Captain Rex to . . . see if I'd be interested."

It was Kix who found his voice first. "Are you?"

"Yes. Yes, I am," Top replied. "They've got a tough road ahead of them, rebuilding and all. I think I would be needed there more than I'm needed here."

Jessie, gracious and perhaps more comprehending of the ebbs and flows of war, spoke warmly. "Congratulations, Top. No one deserves it more."

Hardcase gave a crooked smile. "Bossing us around wasn't enough? You needed to get into a position where you could boss around an entire battalion."

"You hit it right on the head," Top said with a wink.

"When would you start?" Jessie asked.

"Right after my convalescence," Top answered. "I'll stay here for that, start getting the lay of the land, as they say."

"So, the decision's been made? This is a done deal?" Kix asked quietly.

Top kept his distance as he replied, "Yes, LB. I told Captain Rex I was accepting the position. He's told General Shyfa by now."

Another awkward silence followed, then Pitch, open and honest as ever, put forth, "I know this is the sort of thing we should be congratulating you for, but I gotta tell you, I wish you weren't going." He put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "In fact, I _hate_ it that you're going. But . . . we all know the kind of soldier you are. They're going to be damned lucky to have you."

"Thanks, Pitch," Top said gratefully, then, "Jessie, I just wish you were here in person. It feels cold doing this over the holo."

"It's good enough," Jessie replied. "You're going to do a great job, Top. We'll all be pulling for you. And, you know how it is in the Army; we'll all probably meet up again."

The morose pall that had descended over the room was now made even worse when Top announced that the rest of the team was leaving to return to Coruscant the following day at 1900.

But leave it to Hardcase to lighten the mood. "Well, fek and all, if this is going to be our last night together, we should spend the whole time here in the holo station, so you can be with us, Jessie. We can spend the whole night telling stories about the splendor of Saber Squad!"

"That sounds like fun to me!" Pitch agreed.

Jessie concurred. "And you can start with the time the man of the hour snuck into the flight simulator and made us all sick—"

"Now, that's not fair, Jessie," Top protested spiritedly, both relieved and grateful at the opportunity to deflect the heaviness that had threatened their gathering. "I was just the one who suggested it. As I recall, it was you who figured out how to get into the simulator without anyone noticing—"

The story unfolded to fond recollections and laughter. And while the joy of remembrance was genuine, the underlying current of happiness was fleeting. They all knew it. In a few hours, the family they had known from the first moments of their earliest awareness would see its first enduring alteration. The trials of the past, they had overcome together. But now, one of their family was, by his own volition, taking his leave.

Saber Squad would never be the same, never be whole, again.


	87. Chapter 86

_**Dear Reader, Thank you to my reviewers: Ms CT-782, RohirrimGirl, Darth Pancake, The Unnamed Guest, Shadow Wanderer, Undercover Dreamer, Sued 13, GuestLori, and OkietheOakTree. Your reviews are very much appreciated! So, we are now headed into the Citadel Arc. While I will not be including every scene from the TV show, I really wanted to include this arc because of what we all know happens to Echo, its effect on Fives and also on Rex. The title of this chapter should give away some of what the emphasis in this chapter is about. I focus a lot on the bonds between characters here, so not too much action yet! Enjoy! CS**_

Chapter 86 Bonds, Their Breaking, and a New Mission

" _Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure."_

 _The Shawshank Redemption  
Stephen King_

* * *

" _I always knew you'd be the one. You'd be the one to go off and do your own thing."_

" _If I could bring the rest of you with me, I would; but you know the captain would never agree to that, and I wouldn't ask him to."_

" _I know. I just . . . I wish you hadn't agreed to take that position, but like I said, I'm not surprised you did. You're a lot like the captain. Wherever the biggest challenge is, that's where you want to be. You're drawn towards conflict, and that call is stronger than the bond you feel with us—"_

" _That's not fair, Little Brother. Nothing is stronger than the bond I have with my squad mates. But for me, I know that bond can survive even if I'm not with you. It's not something that depends on proximity."_

" _You were the one who always said, 'Live together, fight together, die together.' I don't blame you for making the decision you did. But you know that it means the end of your creed – for you and for the rest of us."_

" _No, it doesn't. I still believe those things. You four will always be my family, but I can't turn my back on the rest of the brotherhood. They need me—"_

" _You talk as if we don't."_

" _LB . . . Kix, you know there's a difference. My presence in Saber Squad adds a level of comfort. My presence with the 808_ _th_ _will be a necessary part of their recovery."_

" _You think we only see you as a level of comfort?"_

" _That isn't what I said. Why are you trying to make me feel bad about taking this position?"_

 _A long and painful silence._

" _Because I'm afraid of what we'll become without you."_

"Kix?"

Kix flinched in his jump seat. "What? What?" He looked up to see Pitch sitting down beside him.

"We're on our final approach to Coruscant. You need to strap in."

"Oh. Yeah. Okay."

"You looked deep in thought," Pitch noted. "I guess we all have a lot to think about, huh?" When he received no answer, he went on. "You still angry?"

"I'm not angry," Kix denied, pulling his shoulder belts down.

Pitch saw no reason to contradict him. "We're all pretty upset, but Top was always the guy who would put the needs of the army ahead of everything else. We can't be angry when he stays true to who he is."

"I told you I'm not angry," Kix replied. It wasn't a complete lie. Anger might not have been the most accurate word to describe what he'd been feeling since learning of Top's decision. There might be an element of bitterness, even a vague sense of betrayal, but more than anything else, Kix felt plain sadness. The promise of a life spent fighting side-by-side had come to an end – not through death or forced reassignment, but through the choice of one man. True, Kix had long known that Top was a leader in search of followers, the sort of clone officer whose skills were best employed in a position of command. Yet, somehow, the medic had never actually envisioned the day when his brother would choose to leave the squad.

Spending the night in the holo-station with his squad-mates, recounting stories, laughing and pretending as if the breaking of the squad was simply the next step in a series of expectations . . . none of that had done a thing to lessen Kix's sense that he was coming face-to-face with his first true loss of the war, even though it was not a loss at all, in the meaning of finality.

In the late hours of morning, they had left the holo-station to get some little sleep, meeting later in the dining facility for lunch; and then, after tending to pre-departure tasks, they'd met once more in the holo-station for a sort of formal farewell, where Jesse could take part.

Kix had dream-walked through each moment, waiting for his brother to announce that he'd changed his mind and would not be leaving. Of course, he knew that would never happen; but it was a hope that prevented him from being utterly maudlin as they passed their final hours together as a squad.

The struggle was between wanting to convince Top to stay and knowing that he must not make him feel guilty for the decision he'd made. Their last conversation together—just the two of them, shortly before meeting in the holo-station for the last time—had turned a bit more accusatory than Kix had intended. It was the very same conversation he'd been recalling when Pitch had interrupted with news of their impending arrival on Coruscant.

Kix would never have done anything to willingly hurt Top. Without question, Top was the brother with whom he felt the greatest affinity, despite their differences. Yet, Kix knew his words at their last meeting had been tainted with a callous rebuke, despite his attempts to be even-tempered.

Now, he wished he had handled himself better.

"Well, at least we might now get to use some of our remaining shore leave," Pitch said, changing the subject.

"Yeah, I think . . . I think I'd rather just get back to work."

Pitch was a good brother. Like Jesse, he was a realist. Like Top, he believed in the intangible and unseen. And like Hardcase, he could be blunt and coarse.

"You can't be like this, Kix," he chided with just the right combination of compassion and chastisement. "Top would box your ears. You need to stay sharp."

"I'm okay," Kix insisted. "You worry as much as he does."

"We're all going to miss him, but it's not like he's dead. He's just gone to another unit," Pitch said. "We all knew he'd get reassigned someday. He was too good an officer not to be given a command billet."

"I know all that, Pitch," Kix replied with a weak smile. "I know all that, and I still wish he was here."

"We all do."

* * *

"You look good," Rex stated. "You're walking a lot better. How does it feel?"

Cody had known Rex long enough to recognize the tone in his voice and the glint in his eye. "It feels much better, but not well enough to get into some contest with you."

"I wasn't going to suggest any kind of contest," Rex replied with feigned indignation.

"Oh yes, you were," Cody shot back.

Rex tilted his head to one side in concession. "Maybe I was, but if you're not up to it—"

"I'm not up to it," Cody said with emphasis. "I'm still on convalescent leave, in case you forgot."

"It's been almost two weeks," Rex pointed out.

"I haven't returned to duty, Rex," Cody stated. "Just because we're shipside again doesn't mean I've had some miraculous recovery." A self-satisfied grin appeared on his face. "But I have to say I am healing up quite nicely. Kix's battlefield skills probably stopped me from tearing the ligaments even further."

"He's the best," Rex praised. "Going through a tough time right now. They all are, but it's hitting him the hardest."

"They were close," Cody noted.

"Yeah."

"Speaking of close," Cody went on, "I believe there was something you were going to tell me if we survived the Kettrun mission. And here we are."

Rex eyed him sideways. "Oh yeah, I recall saying something like that. So, what was it you wanted to know?"

"I want to know what happened on Bertegad," Cody went straight to the point.

"Why do you assume something happened?" Rex asked.

"Because I know you." Cody stopped walking. They had come to the officers' mess, but the commander was not ready to go inside. "I know you never used to talk about things like souls and life after death. Hell, Rex, you didn't even like to talk about the Force. Battle and competition were your two favorite subjects. So, what happened?"

"I already told you what happened," Rex replied. "I told you what the Doma showed me."

"No, no, Captain, you're not getting off that easily," Cody said, shaking his head. "I distinctly remember on the shuttle down to Bertegard, you said 'it caught you by surprise'. When I asked you what it was, you didn't want to discuss it in front of the others. Well, it's just you and me now. So, let's have it."

Rex simpered. "I despise your memory."

"Un-huh. Get on with it."

"Okay. _She_ caught me by surprise." Rex's answer was straightforward and simple.

"She? The Doma."

"Yes. I'm not an expert on the matter, but I think it's safe to say that I developed a strong attraction to her," Rex explained, sounding as if he were reading a technical manual.

Cody simpered. "A strong attraction? That's what Hardcase feels towards his weapons."

Rex chuckled. "So, maybe it was a bit more than a strong attraction." Then, deciding that it was no use to downplay his feelings, he grew serious. "I'm in love with her."

And even though Cody had been expecting this revelation, now that he was hearing it from Rex's own lips, he was momentarily speechless. At last, he managed, "Now, that's something of a problem, don't you think?"

"Are we going to discuss this here in the corridor?" Rex quipped. "It doesn't seem like the best place."

"There's CCR 2. Looks empty. We can go in there."

The command conference room was, in fact, empty. Once inside, Cody closed the door and received his companion's pre-emptive strike.

"Cody, you don't need to worry," Rex began. "I mean that. We won't be going back to Bertegad, and even if we did, Maree and I already decided that there can't be anything between us." He conveniently left out some of the more incredible details of their agreement.

"It seems there already is something between you," Cody put forth. "I'm no expert either, but I don't think you can say you're in love with someone and then say there's nothing between you."

"Yes, but everything that's between us is in the past," Rex asserted.

"I don't think so."

Rex drew in a deep breath and sat on the edge of the briefing table. "Cody . . . our life—our world—is centered around violence. We were created to fight. That's the one reason for our existence. And a love of fighting in ingrained in all of us."

"Rex, that's not—"

"Let me finish. It's not the fighting we hate. It's the dying, the suffering." He paused. "Seeing our brothers killed and injured. It's something we can never get away from. We're bred to be mentally tough, and, for the most part, we are." A pause. "But when you get a glimpse of . . . what it means to be at peace . . . it's something you don't want to let go of."

"Peace is what we're fighting for—"

"I don't mean that kind of peace. I don't mean peace in the sense of an absence of war," Rex interrupted. "I mean the kind of peace that exists in the _midst_ of war, when everything is falling apart." He looked Cody straight in the eye. "That's what I felt when I was with her. It's not—it's not even a natural peace. It came from something outside of her." He heaved a deep breath, feeling that he could not possibly give an adequate explanation. "But it made her who she was, and . . . I won't lie, Cody: I wanted that peace and the woman who possessed it. It was a peace that meant freedom."

Cody absorbed this scattered explanation. "And the Doma? Did she feel the same way about you?"

"Yes. But we both recognized our situations. Her position as Doma, my status as property of the Republic . . . there was nothing to be done. The freedom I wanted was right there at my fingertips, and I didn't dare take it." He gave a wan smile. "You know, I . . . I had this idea that when the war was over, General Skywalker would give me my freedom, and I'd go to be with her. But . . . when I think of leaving the general, I can't imagine my future anywhere but at his side. How's that for genetic programming?"

Cody replied with understanding. "That's not genetic programming, Rex. That's the bond between a general and his captain. And I would say that bond between you and General Skywalker is probably the strongest I've ever seen."

Rex stood up and paced slowly around the holo table. "I've always known what I wanted Cody. Ever since I was able to form my first words, I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be the best soldier in the best unit working for the best general." He stopped and put his hands on the outer console. "I still want all those things, but now, I want something else, as well. I want their complete opposite. I want a place where I can go inside and there's only peace. Maree is that place."

Cody waited before replying carefully, "You said, yourself, that being with her isn't possible. But you've brought a lot with you from your time at the Monastica. Maybe that peace needs to be inside _you_ now." He grinned. "So long as you don't bring it to the battlefield. I don't need to turn around and see you trying to make nice with the tinnies."

Rex gave a slight smile. "There's no danger of that ever happening." The smile gave way to a wistful frown. "In a way, I'm glad the war keeps us busy. Thinking about her only makes things harder."

"Well, we're all attracted to women," Cody noted. "But there's not much opportunity to fall in love, to my eternal gratitude. Otherwise, we'd have soldiers distracted and going AWOL left and right." He stood behind Rex and put a hand on his shoulder. "Still, you're the last one I would have expected to be affected so strongly. I don't want you to become a casualty of distraction."

"No worries there, Commander," Rex replied with surety. "After everything I saw at the Monastica, I have a vested interest in making sure I do things right. I made her a promise, and I'm going to do everything in my power to keep it."

"What promise did you make?"

"That's between me and Maree. Some things are private. But let's just say, the future depends on the actions we take in the present."

Cody grinned. "That doesn't allow for unplanned circumstances. A man can do all the right things, but the unexpected can still ruin his plans."

Rex straightened up. "As long as he's done all the right things, the outcome of his plans doesn't matter."

Cody was perplexed by this statement. "Of course, it does."

Rex was curt. "Only to the course of history."

"What does that mean?"

Rex put his arm around Cody's shoulders and began steering him towards the door. "It means I've answered all the questions I'm going to, I'm hungry and so are you, and if we wait much longer, the dining hall will be packed."

"You're impossible."

"I learned it from General Skywalker."

* * *

Anakin slapped Rex on the shoulder. His voice was mirthful, almost teasing. "They're sending us to rescue Master Piell. What do you think of that, Rex?"

Two months after the mission on Kettrun, GAR Headquarters finally felt confident enough to launch a rescue operation based on the intelligence obtained by Commander Ki'weya. The Citadel was not a place to be taken lightly. Designed as a detention center for any Jedi that might lose his way, it was a fortress from which escape was nearly impossible. It had been built upon the lava caves of Lola Sayu, an inhospitable place on an inhospitable planet. Constructed with Jedi in mind, it contained every manner of physical barrier, sensor and visual surveillance, and now a contingent of droids operating under the overseership of Osi Sobeck, a Phindian male with a penchant for cruelty. He was a perfect fit as warden for such a dark and foreboding place.

But it was not the prospect of the Citadel itself—or Osi Sobeck—that made Rex cringe upon learning of the mission.

"I think you should probably take Jesse with you instead of me," the captain replied.

"Now, why would I want to do that? I'm actually looking forward to seeing the expression on Master Piell's face when you bust into his cell and free him," Anakin quipped, sounding far too happy about the impending highly dangerous mission.

"When he sees me, he might decide to stay in his cell," Rex said.

Anakin chuckled. "You may be right." A pause, after which he added with wry grin, "You know, I still think you did it on purpose."

Rex actually colored. "It, uh, wasn't exactly the impression I wanted to make at our first meeting."

Anakin beamed with happiness at a fond memory. "You left an impression, that's for sure."

"I thought you were going to throw me back and ask for a new officer," Rex said.

"Well, I thought about it," Anakin admitted. "But my curiosity won out. Besides, you weren't alone in it."

"Yeah." Now, it was Rex's turn to grin. "How is that Denal is always right beside me when chaos happens?"

"You're the one who brought him with you when you came to the 501st," Anakin reminded him. "Don't tell me you didn't know what you were getting." He grew somewhat more somber. "How's he doing, by the way? I heard he did great on Kettrun. He seems to be fully recovered."

"He's back to one hundred percent," Rex replied.

"That didn't take too long."

"It's been almost six months, Sir; but you're right, he bounced back quickly."

"Well, either way, he's lucky. We're lucky. He would have been a tough loss," Anakin concluded.

He was referring to incident eight months earlier that had almost cost the trooper his life. A bounty hunter named Cad Bane had broken into the library vaults of the Jedi Temple and stolen a holocron containing a list of all the known Force-sensitive children in the galaxy. A small task force from the 501st had boarded Bane's ship in order to retrieve it. As usually happened during any mission led by General Skywalker, the task force had ended up breaking into several elements, each going its own way with its own mission.

Ultimately, as the ship had begun to self-destruct around them, Rex had sent Denal and another trooper, Koho, to find General Skywalker and Commander Tano, both of whom had disappeared after Bane. But the two troopers never found their commanding officers. They did, however, find Bane. The details of what followed were never fully fleshed out, for Denal remembered very little. He recalled that he and Koho had encountered Bane overlooking the hangar bay and confronted him. His last recollection was attempting to put binders around Bane's wrists and a micro-second of searing, intense pain. When he later regained consciousness, he was naked, disoriented, alone, and surrounded by the sights and sounds of a ship only moments from destruction. A pile of clone armor lay not far from where he lay, and recognized the markings as belonging to Koho. He could not concern himself with more than the most basic facts, for he knew he was running out of time. The way the ship was shuddering and warping around him, he had to get out of there. Only, his body had not reacted the way it should. He could get to his feet, but his legs were sluggish to obey his brain's commands, and at last, he'd been reduced to a crawl. Absorbing the brunt of falling debris and navigating the maze of suddenly jutted, torn and twisted metal, he'd made his way to the hangar bay.

But the shuttle that was to have been his escape was gone.

All that remained was single bank of escape pods. And that was how he'd made his escape. The force of the final destruction of the ship had sent his pod careening off into space to become part of the debris field left by the explosion.

It wasn't until two weeks later, after the oxygen had been nearly depleted and the emergency rations fully consumed, that a GAR combat salvage unit had arrived to scour the wreckage for anything useful, that Denal's pod had been discovered with its occupant teetering on the verge of death.

During his recovery, Denal had learned what had transpired in those waning minutes aboard Bane's frigate; how Bane had dressed in Denal's armor, somehow managed to force Koho to wear the bounty hunter's garb, and then staged a scene in which it looked as Bane himself had been killed by Denal.

Upon learning the truth, Denal had been despondent, nearly inconsolable. He felt the loss of Koho as his own failure, given he'd been the senior of the two. And the fact that they'd had Bane there at gunpoint, only to be foiled by the bounty hunter, allowing him to escape . . .

Had it not been for Rex, Denal might have never snapped back. But when the captain had learned that his esteemed _First Escort_ was still alive, he'd immediately asked General Skywalker for permission to go the clone medical facility at Krigo-1. To say that Rex was overjoyed would have been an understatement, and that optimism and reassurance had gone a long way towards Denal's recovery. Within six weeks, he was back with the 501st, side-by-side with Back Up, and once again serving under the man whom he considered to be the finest clone officer to ever grace the ranks of the Republic. From that point on, his recovery had been marked by its rapidity.

And Rex could not have been more pleased. He and Denal shared a greater past than the mere four days of E&E, and the latter's presence was always cool and reassuring.

"You, uh, weren't intending for him to go on this mission, were you, Sir?" Rex asked. "Seeing me will be bad enough for Master Piell. Denal could send him over the top. You know that Jedi has a temper."

Anakin smiled broadly. "As much as I would love to see that, I think Denal's earned a stand-down on this one. As always, I'll leave it up to you to pick your team."

"Yes, Sir."

* * *

The mission briefing was the following morning, but Rex would be attending it remotely. He had some business to attend to onboard the Zephyr, one of the Resolute battle group's attending minesweeper ships. Apparently, some prohibited paraphernalia of a drug-related sort had been found in the crew's quarters; and Rex, falling outside the Zephyr's chain-of-command, had been tasked as the initial inquiry officer.

Ridiculous, really. Rex despised such taskings, as they took him away from his primary job of leading his men; but this investigation was just about wrapped up. This morning's visit was nothing more than the formal presentation of his findings to the appointing officer, who happened to be the captain of the Zephyr. And so long as he could use the Zephyr's holo projector, he could participate in the Citadel mission briefing without actually being present.

And given the lack of intelligence data, it turned out there was very little substance to the initial briefing.

General Plo Koon opened the discussion. "As you are aware, the Citadel is the most isolated and impenetrable detention facility. No one has ever escaped."

Anakin, grave but undeterred, replied, "There's a first time for everything."

"Indeed there is," Obi-wan agreed.

Plo Koon went on. "Their security has prevented our probes from obtaining recent reconnaissance, so we've been forced to construct a crude map based on data from the archives." As he spoke, he pulled up a simplistic holograph of the fortress.

"And since the data's extremely old, the map will be difficult to rely on," Obi-wan added grimly.

Anakin was as direct and no-nonsense as ever. "So, we're essentially going in blind."

Standing directly behind the holographic image of their captain, Fives and Echo exchanged subtle glances which bespoke the thoughts shared between the two men: _how do they ever expect to pull this off?_

At his point, Rex spoke up. "Beg your pardon, General, but how do we know Master Piell is still alive?"

Anakin couldn't help himself from snickering internally at this question. _"You know damned well he's too stubborn and crotchety to die until he has a chance to get even with you, Rex."_

Obi-wan gave the reasonable answer. "The Separatists won't dare kill Master Piell until they have what they need."

"They want to obtain the coordinates of a secret hyperspace lane known as the Nexus route, which travels into the heart of the both the Republic and Separatist home worlds," Plo stated.

"They could prove vital in maneuvering our forces deep into remote separatist sectors." This from Obi-wan.

Anakin spoke up, "Or the enemy could use them to slip through our defenses and attack Coruscant."

General Plo summed it up nicely and succinctly. "These hyperspace lanes of immense interest to both sides and could tip the scale of the war to whomever is in possession of them." He paused, then announced, "That is all. We will meet again at 0700 tomorrow morning to finalize our plans."

The briefing broke up. The three Jedi generals left the conference room together. They still had some planning to do prior to the next meeting.

"Based on the archive schematics, we've narrowed it down to three possible locations they could be holding Master Piell," Master Plo began. "The main prison block, the isolation cells on level six, or the medical wing cells."

"I agree," Obi-wan concurred. "Those do seem like the most likely locations, but we mustn't forget that Osi Sobeck will be expecting a rescue attempt and may be holding Master Piell in a less likely location." A pause. "My greatest concern is infiltrating their outer security. Life form scanners will not be easy to fool."

Anakin spoke up with a provocative grin. "I've got a thought about that."

Before they could discuss Anakin's thoughts on the matter, a voice diverted their attention. It was Ahsoka, approaching from behind them.

"Master, I'm sorry I'm late. I just heard about the briefing. We're going to rescue Master Piell, right?"

Master Plo took Anakin's hesitation as the cue for him and Obi-wan to depart. "You two have much to discuss," he said.

Anakin turned to his padawan. "Ahsoka, I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but you won't be coming along on this one." He put his hand on her shoulder to soften the blow.

"Not coming?" Ahsoka was incredulous. "But you're breaking into the Citadel. No one's ever done it."

Anakin began walking. "The Citadel wasn't designed to hold common criminals. It was created to hold Jedi if any of us lost our way. It's not a place for padawans," he said pointedly.

Ahsoka had heard this line of reasoning before on many a mission that her master had decided was too dangerous for _a padawan_. She wasn't about to let this instance go uncontested. Breaking into the Citadel was the sort of mission that would likely only come about once. She had no intention of being left out of the action. "You're just being protective again. That's not fair. How am I supposed to learn if you won't let me share the risk?

Anakin turn to face her briefly. "This isn't a mission for learning." His voice was firm. "You either do or die." In a gesture a finality, he turned and began walking away, effectively ending discussion. "And that's not a risk I'm willing to share."

* * *

"Well, the one thing about being an ARC trooper . . . we get to go on just about every mission," Echo stated. It was clear from his voice that he considered inclusion in every mission to be a boon and an honor.

Fives did not share his brother's enthusiasm. Not that Fives would ever shrink from a battle; rather he was finding himself, more often lately, questioning—internally, at least—the purpose and wisdom of some of the assignments he and his battalion mates were being asked to carry out.

Unlike Echo, who approached every situation with the eagerness and can-do attitude of a cadet, Fives had become more circumspect, more wary . . . perhaps even somewhat cynical. Whatever the reason behind the changes, he still comported himself professionally and obediently. His devotion to his captain was undiminished, as was his bond with Echo. Yet, a subtle skepticism had crept into his manner – not enough to cause concern, but enough to tweak his first-in-command's notice. Fives knew Rex had thought twice about whether or not to include him and Echo on this mission, reasoning that the two had, as Echo had just stated, been involved in every major undertaking since coming to the battalion, and certainly since being made ARC troopers. A break was in order, but then Echo had insisted that ARC troopers were just the sort of soldier needed for a mission like the Citadel, and the captain had ultimately agreed.

And so here they were in Hangar 8, preparing for their most difficult mission yet.

"We're only going on this one because you volunteered," Fives reminded him.

"The captain's going to need us," Echo replied, undaunted. "This is going to be dangerous."

"You ever think of spreading the danger around? Letting other troopers get their fair share?" Fives grinned. "Being an ARC has gone to your head."

"Don't be stupid," Echo rejoined. "Anytime I can be there to protect General Skywalker and Captain Rex, I'm going to be there. I felt that way before becoming an ARC."

"Yeah, that's true." Fives clapped him on the shoulder. "You're a natural soldier, Echo."

"We're _all_ natural soldiers," Echo replied.

A high-pitched whistle interrupted their conversation, and a moment later, the unmistakable voice of Skywalker's high-strung protocol droid rose up throughout the hangar.

"Artoo! Look out, behind you! You're being followed by battle droids!"

Echo and Fives turned to see what all the commotion was about.

"Huh, they _are_ battle droids," Echo noted curiously.

The protocol droid and the R2 unit were having a conversation, only one side of which was comprehensible to the two clones. The protocol droid, a C-3PO model – and whom Fives found gratingly annoying—was providing the essence of the exchange.

"These are your troops? But they're battle droids. What do you mean they've been reprogrammed to follow your orders?"

Echo smiled. The protocol droid did not get on his nerves at all. In fact, he enjoyed listening to the borderline paranoid, doom and gloom, ever-worrying manner that the droid displayed. Perhaps it was because Echo himself was such an opposite to the droid in demeanor and outlook. Echo viewed events with an optimism that was almost baffling in its consistency.

The argument between the two droids concluded with the protocol droid scolding, "Don't you go thumbing your gears at me just because you have a bunch of dimwitted droids following you about. Oh!"

Fives expressed his doubt in a low voice. "We're trusting those droids to get us into the Citadel?"

Cody, overhearing the remark, answered in manner that would brook no dissent. "It's the only way. Fly right into the heart of separatist territory. Droids won't be detected."

Fives held his peace. Echo nudged him in the side. "You're sounding as grim as the droid."

"Do _not_ compare me to a droid," Fives warned.

"Come on. Time to go," Cody ordered. A crooked grin gave an almost sinister slant to his face. "I hope you're all ready for a new experience."

* * *

There were times when Rex wondered if maybe he had too much blind trust in his commanding general. It might just be possible that followership could go too far . . . even for a clone.

His thoughts weren't exactly warm and revering as he crossed the hangar on his way towards a shipping device, the use of which was being contemplated for something never before attempted.

"I've never been carbon frozen before, General," he stated. And he was not happy about it.

Anakin overlooked his captain's less-than-enthusiastic tone of voice. "It's the first time for us, too."

" _And what if this kills us? Or ends up injuring us beyond repair? What if we can't be unfrozen? Fek and all, this is crazy."_ Rex kept these thoughts to himself. If nothing else, he would set the example to his men by going forward with the calm and determination of a duty-driven man.

Obi-wan did not care about setting the example. "This is your idea? Carbon freezing?" He sounded incredulous and unconvinced.

Anakin shrugged. "Hey, as long as it shields us from the life form scanners."

Fives, apparently, was also not fully sold on the idea. "Are, uh, you sure this thing is safe? I don't want to end up a wall decoration."

Obi-wan now felt it was his place to ease any feelings of worry. "Try to relax. We'll be unfrozen as soon as we arrive."

" _Oh, good,"_ Fives thought cynically. _"I can't wait to turn into a puddle on the floor."_

Two platforms away, Rex's thoughts were only marginally less sarcastic. _"Here goes nothing."_

 **NOTE:**

 **Kix's statement about his fear of what will happen to the squad without Top is a direct arrow towards Umbara (which is a later chapter, of course!). I'm sure everyone recognizes how different Jesse and Kix are moving from The Deserter to Umbara. Well, in my version of things, this is where I start to set the stage for what happens to account for the changes.**

 **I really struggled (and I mean, really!) with the conversation between Cody and Rex regarding Bertegad. It's hard to write a realistic scene between two very masculine men, neither of whom really seems like the type to "bare his soul" regarding issues of sentiment. But I did my best, and I hope it wasn't too saccharin!**

 **Also, with regard to Denal . . . I loved the character too much to accept his demise in the series, so I wrote his "resurrection" into my story. I didn't want to go into the entire Holocron story in detail, so I referenced it in a flashback. You'll also note the allusion to Rex's and Anakin's first meeting (subject of a later chapter) and the fact that Denal had a part to play in it.**


	88. Chapter 87

_**Dear Reader, Thank you, first of all, to my reviewers: The Unnamed Guest, Darth Pancake, RohirrimGirl, Ms CT-782, Shadow Wanderer and Undercover Dreamer. As always, I appreciate you taking the time to review and keep me motivated. So, here we are, onto the Citadel. There were always a few things about the Citadel that bothered me, as a viewer - mainly how uncaring Obi-wan, Anakin and Ahsoka seemed at the death of various clones, but when Piell died, they somehow found the time to "mourn" him a little bit. You will pick up that sentiment in my writing of the Citadel. Full disclosure: I detest the character of Master Piell. He may not be on the same level as a General Krell, but he really struck me as being a real jacka**. Also, there seemed to be an inconsistency with how many 212th clones were on the mission. I ultimately settled on three. At any rate, I hope you enjoy! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 86 Subterfuge

" _Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception."_

 _The Prince_  
Nicolo Machiavelli

* * *

So much for his hope that the transition from the carbon freeze would be easy. Rex had entertained the possibility that maybe—just maybe—being carbon frozen would be like the peaceful bliss of a bacta tank. Or the gentle work of an analgesic.

He'd been wrong on both accounts.

Emerging from the _sleep_ of the carbon casing had been one the most uncomfortable feelings he'd ever experienced. An initial disorientation, during which he wasn't sure where he was or even who he was, lasted only a few seconds. Once the neurons began firing in his brain and the synapses began carrying their electric signals again, his recollections began flooding back like water filling a basin. This phase was accompanied by an almost overpowering sense of nausea.

Vaguely aware of the sound of other team members emerging from their encasement, he held out a hand to brace himself against the frame from which he had just come. He kept his eyes closed, breathed deeply and slowly, and waited for the waves of stomach-roiling unsteadiness to pass. He heard General Skywalker's voice, distant and watery. _"Hey, Snips."_

Commander Tano's response of _"Hey, Master,"_ was equally distorted.

" _I must have carbon sickness, because I could swear that's Ahsoka."_ That was General Kenobi's voice, and it sounded a bit clearer.

" _Your eyes are fine. It's Ahsoka's hearing that needs help."_

The conversation was occurring just on the fringe of Rex's awareness, but at least he was starting to feel well enough to comprehend its implications. Commander Tano was not supposed to be on this mission.

So, what was she doing here?

"I received orders to join the team. I thought you knew." Commander Tano's voice again, and even Rex, in his unsettled state, could detect the falsity in her tone.

"Orders? From who?" General Skywalker demanded.

"I discussed it with Master Plo."

Ah, the commander's emphasis on the word, _discussed_ , belied her careful phrasing of the answer, so that she did not have to compound her original lie with yet another one. Rex was certain that General Skywalker had detected the same hints, and now that the nausea was wearing off, the captain waited to see if the general would call her on it.

"He didn't tell me," Skywalker challenged.

"You . . . were already in carbonite."

"Well, I gave you a specific order not to come." The general was angry.

Rex slipped his helmet on and pretended not to be listening. As General Kenobi approached, both he and Cody went to parade rest.

"Everything in working order, Captain?" Obi-wan inquired.

"Just about, Sir."

Kenobi now addressed both firsts-in-command. "As soon as the others are unfrozen, we'll move out."

"Yes, Sir," both men replied in unison. Behind them, they could hear the grunting and groaning of other team members, but that was preferable to the arguing between General Skywalker and his padawan.

Such back-and-forths between were fairly commonplace where the two were concerned, but that fact did not lessen the discomfort it caused their troops.

Rex had become a master at presenting himself as the disinterested, disengaged party in the room, being that these _discussions_ very often took place in his presence. And if, on the off chance, he was drawn into the fray, his decision was simple enough. He sided with General Skywalker. Always.

Still, he could not feign surprise at the fact that Commander Tano was taking after her master in many areas, this sort of bending of the rules being one. Her next statement drove that point home.

"If there's one thing I've learned from you, Master, it's that following direct orders isn't always the best way to solve a problem."

Rex was tempted to deflect attention away from the conversation. It was annoying enough that he had to listen to it, but he knew Cody could hear every word, as well.

"Armor did a good job against the carbon," he said, flicking his finger against his breast plate. "Not a scratch."

Cody recognized the deflection for what it was, and he went along. "Good thing."

As the two clones tried to focus on anything but the kerfuffle brewing a few meters away, Kenobi decided that he, too, had heard enough of the quibbling between master and padawan, and so he intervened. "I see Anakin's new teaching method is . . . do as I say, not as I do. Welcome aboard."

So, it was settled. That quickly. That easily.

Rex could not help but wonder if he would have gotten such an easy pass had he so explicitly disobeyed his general's orders. Of course, he could also not even remotely envision a scenario in which he would have ever done such a thing.

"Let's go see how the others are doing." Cody interrupted his musings with mission practicality.

From the 501st, Rex had brought only three: Echo, Fives, and Dodger, a veteran whose presence in the 501st had preceded Rex's command. Dodger had been chosen for his overall experience, but mostly because of his skill at scrambling communications. The Citadel had extensive and formidable comm and surveillance networks. Dodger was an expert at disrupting those systems, and it was likely that the need would arise to do just that – at some point or other.

Cody's 212th contingent consisted of Longshot, one of his best snipers; Daws, who, like Dodger, was a veteran trooper and reliable in a pinch; and Bounce, in the event a pilot was needed.

They all appeared to have fared well during the carbon freezing and thawing process. Poor Fives seemed to be taking the worst of it. Rex attributed it to the ARC's already heightened state of agitation, given his worrying over the procedure. Upon being unfrozen, Fives had actually fallen to his knees and remained there for some time, gathering his composure. Echo, knowing any assistance would be waved off, stood by silently as he regained his own equanimity. At length, when both men were on their feet and nearing normalcy, Fives spoke in a raspy voice.

"I am _never_ doing that again."

"It wasn't so bad," Echo said, grinning beneath his helmet. "Interesting concept, using it on people. It's meant only for perishable goods—"

"I don't need to hear that, Echo," Fives cut him off.

"Yes, I know, but the fact that we survived has major ramifications for all sorts of things – like space travel, medical healing, prolonging life—"

"That's very exciting," Fives blunted the subject. "But we can talk about it some other time. Let's just be glad we didn't turn into ice cubes and—"

"Carbon freezing doesn't involve water, so ice cubes wouldn't be—"

"One more word, Echo," Fives warned.

Echo clapped him on the shoulder. "Okay, you win."

Less than five minutes later, the team was ready to move out.

"Guard the shuttle, Artoo," General Skywalker ordered the droid. "We'll contact you when we're ready for take-off."

Rex would have felt better leaving Bounce there to perform the extraction, but it was crucial that the ship remain void of life forms. The plan had been that the shuttle would, ostensibly, be able to clear Separatist lines by being piloted by battle droids claiming to be on a resupply mission. So far, all had gone according to plan. The carbon frozen human contents had, in fact, gone undetected. The ship, instead of reporting directly to the Citadel Central Control-appointed landing site, had instead turned off its tracking system and gone into the canyons near the Citadel, where it had dropped off and thawed out its human cargo. At a word from either Kenobi or Skywalker, the ship would head for the Citadel in anticipation of being the escape vehicle for the rescue team. Yes, the Separatists would already be suspicious, given the shuttle's late arrival, but a plausible story might still be concocted. However, a humanoid presence on board the shuttle would be a complete giveaway.

Concern about the shuttle's status, however, was soon supplanted by a greater concern. After less than an hour of skirting along a narrow ledge overlooking the steaming lava river below, the team had come within sight of its objective: the Citadel Tower. And if they had not been impressed by reports of the structure, they were now awestruck its appearance.

The immensity alone was enough to strike fear into lesser hearts. A massive cobant retaining wall rose at least four hundred meters above the swirling, molten pool formed by the sluicing of the river into a sort of harbor – not used for ships, but rather for generating power. In the center of the wall rose the tower, jutting out into the harbor, wider at its base and tapering towards the top, several banks of illuminated windows glowing white in the yellow-orange haze, and crowned with four search lights, sweeping randomly across the forbidding landscape, searching for anomalies.

This was what they were going into. One way or another.

Anakin drew out his micro-binoculars and searched the cobant wall, following horizontally until he came to the rough and crooked seam where the wall met the natural rock of the cliff. About a hundred meters below the rampart that ran along the top of both the cliff and the wall, he spied a wide door with a landing. "I see the entry point."

Cody, in the meantime, was taking wind readings with his wrist sensor. The canyon from which they had just emerged, now opening onto the broader _harbor_ , exited the gorge with gusty force. This had been expected and was the reason the idea of jetpacks had been abandoned.

"You were right," he reported. "The wind conditions are too strong for jetpacks."

"Yes," Obi-wan concurred. "We'll have to do it the old-fashioned way – with ascension cables and a steel grip."

"I don't think so," Anakin balked.

"What do you mean?"

"Electro mines. There's nowhere to put a grappling hook at that height," Anakin explained, looking through his binoculars once again. "And if we hit one of those, the mission's over. They'll know we're here." He handed the binoculars to Obi-wan.

It was Rex who stated what they all knew to be the case. "I suppose that means we free-climb it." Of course, when Rex said it, the slight hint of challenge and fervor was detectable beneath the evenness of his tone.

"I'll lead the way," Obi'wan announced. "Try to follow in the same holds."

"Easy for the Jedi to say," Longshot quipped to Bounce. "They have a little advantage over us."

"Eh, we can do this," Bounce replied. "No big deal."

Rex drew up and stood beside Cody. "You know, we'd be able to use jetpacks if they'd taken my suggestions on improving the things back in ARC training," he threw out with a self-certitude that made for some humor under the circumstances.

"The only one who could fly the thing the way you _improved_ it would be you," Cody replied. "The rest of us would blow ourselves sky high." He nudged Rex towards the face of the rock. "Start climbing."

They were fortunate in that the cliff face which they were scaling was rough and uneven, offering good purchase and many choices for holds and mantling. The entrance was about a hundred meters up, certainly no more than a forty-five-minute climb given the agreeable conditions of the face. The only negative factor was the wind . . . and the possibility that they might very well already be under surveillance.

Even so, Rex was pleased with their progress. No one seemed to be having any difficulties. He silently congratulated himself on his choice of team members, extending his unspoken gratitude to Cody's selections, as well – for he was under no illusion that this was going to be an easy mission. They would need every bit of cunning and skill to successfully carry out what could only be described as a highly dangerous plan with so many variables and moving parts, that it could go wrong at any step along the way. And Rex did not miss the irony of the fact that he was risking his life to rescue a man whose past behavior had so angered him that this was one Jedi whom Rex would have been happy to never see again.

" _If this is the best they can give you, Skywalker, you deserve my pity."_

"You can save your pity, General Piell," Rex grumbled to himself as he reached up for the next hold. The insult was as fresh and biting today as it had been when it had happened. "I'm the one saving your life. Maybe we clones aren't as useless as you thought."

Over the course of the war, Rex had met and observed many Jedi generals; and it had not taken long for his misconception about the uniformity of the Jedi to be scattered to the four winds. Not surprisingly, Rex's ideas about the Jedi had been formed in his early days by the example of General Shaak Ti on Kamino. Everything he had ever seen of her was comprised of grace, unwavering fairness, and a consideration of all options. General Shaak Ti rarely saw the way forward as offering only one path. She had wisdom, patience, and a deep reverence for the gift she had been given in her affinity with the Force.

Rex had imagined all Jedi would be like her.

Not so. Definitely not so.

Why, his own Jedi general, General Skywalker, was as far from the dulcet, measured character of Shaak Ti as Coruscant was from the Outer Rim. Not that Rex had any complaint. In fact, General Skywalker had shown Rex that there was a type of Jedi with whom he himself was a better fit – the devil-may-care, try-anything-once, rules-are-meant-to-be-broken brand of Jedi that General Skywalker embodied; though, to own the truth, Rex realized that it was highly likely that there were no other such Jedi, that General Skywalker was one-of-a-kind when it came to that mysterious group of knights.

Still, Rex had believed that all Jedi would display the sort of subtle nobility that was a hallmark of their order. From Master Yoda to Master Windu to Master Ayala, all Jedi seemed to share a certain sensitivity towards the value of life, the implications of mere existence.

It wasn't until his encounter with Master Piell that Rex had been forced to face an unpleasant truth: the Jedi were not all equal in demeanor, not all equal in deportment, not all equal in their estimation of the value of things – including the value of mass-produced lives.

It was a lesson Rex had never forgotten. He could play off the insult as well as any other man, shrugging it away, as if it hadn't been able to touch him – or the other men at whom it had been directed – but though he might not show it on the surface, he kept it closely guarded inside. His treatment at the hands of Master Piell was one of the things that made him so greatly appreciate and revere General Skywalker. Rex could not even conceive of what his performance might have been like had he had the ill luck to be assigned to serve under someone like Piell . . .

"Hangin' in there, Snips?!"

Rex looked up at the sound of General Skywalker's voice addressing his padawan.

Ahsoka replied gamely, "Couldn't be better!" Almost as an afterthought, she added, "I could do without the wind, though."

Yes, Rex considered himself fortunate. Of all the Jedi, of all the padawans . . . he had scored the winning team – their squabbling, notwithstanding.

He continued to climb, the wind seeming to pick up, as if it had heard Ahsoka's lament. The magnetic fields of the electro mines pricked and crackled, taunting reminders of the danger that even the slightest breaking the field would entail.

"The entry point is just a few more meters," General Kenobi announced. Whereas he had been moving slowly and cautiously before, now he scaled the final height with the rapidity of a Jedi, picking his way up the rock face in Force-assisted leaps and bounds. Within seconds, he was peering over the lip of the platform, but before he could pull himself up, a roller and two SBDs came through the door.

Immediately, he dropped back below the platform and held his finger to his lips.

Anakin, catching the warning, put his hand out to stop all movement behind him.

Several tense seconds passed during which the climbers hugged as close to the rocky surface as possible, hoping to minimize their silhouettes. But the droids did not bother to look directly below them, and at length, they returned back through the doorway.

Obi-wan pulled himself up once more to look over the platform, only to see a filmy red light across the threshold. "They locked the door. It's ray-shielded."

Anakin grimaced. "Ray-shielded? That wasn't in the plan."

"Well, it's in the plan now," Obi-wan replied.

"There's an opening up there," Ahsoka pointed out.

"We know," Anakin stated. "Ventilation ducts. But they're far too small for us to gain access."

"Too small for you, maybe; but I think I can squeeze through," Ahsoka opined.

"Well, we hadn't planned on Ahsoka being here," Obi-wan reasoned. "Perhaps she's right."

At this point, Anakin was willing to give anything a try. If they spent much more time on the open face of the cliff, they would certainly be spotted; and climbing another hundred meters to the rampart was out of the question. The wind was definitely picking up, and this sort of free-climb would start to take a toll on the clones.

He nodded his approval and watched as Ahsoka made her way up to the ventilation duct. Using the Force, she opened the hatch and, in the blink of an eye, disappeared into the narrow opening.

A few seconds later, General Kenobi gave the go-ahead.

"She did it," Longshot said to Bounce, who was just below him on the face.

"Good thing, too," Bounce replied. "My fingers are starting to ache."

"Well, don't let go now," came Longshot's chiding encouragement. "We're almost there."

Up above them, General Kenobi was helping Commander Cody onto the platform. Things were moving quickly now. The prospect of getting off the wall had given everyone an added boost of adrenaline. On one side of the platform, Fives was the anchor, pulling his brothers up to the platform; on the other side, General Kenobi filled the same roll. Cody was holding his men back from entering the corridor, keeping them concealed behind the rocky abutment, despite Commander Tano's presence beside the opening. Cody preferred to have everyone assembled and then to move forward as a group. As far as he was concerned, there could be any number of enemy in those corridors, and avoiding detecting was going to be the key to successfully carrying out this mission.

Rex had already begun to pull himself up onto the platform when Fives took his forearm, more to steady him than to offer any meaningful assistance. The captain got to his feet and was already heading for General Skywalker when he heard Fives' voice call out urgently, "Dodger!"

There followed a cry of panic. Rex and General Kenobi raced to the edge of the platform to see Dodger tumbling away from them directly into an electro-mine. The impact detonated the mine, killing the clone instantly and exploding any possibility of secrecy.

For just a moment, Rex allowed the loss to hit him. He had to give some leeway to the horror of the moment, to the knowledge that one of his long-term troops had just died – a bulwark of the 501st, a clone whose loss would be heavily felt by those who had come to see him as one of the long-termers, one of Skywalker's original troops.

"Well, they know we're here." This was General Kenobi.

Rex felt a pang in his gut. There had been a strange sort of callous, almost-gallows humor in the general's voice. No remorse for the life that had just been lost. It struck Rex as cold and insensitive – not at all what he'd come to expect from the 212th Commanding General. Rex quickly caught himself.

" _What could he say, under the circumstances? He's right, they know we're here now, and we can't waste any time,"_ he told himself. _"General Kenobi respects us clones. He wouldn't make light of something like this."_ He was ashamed of himself for even thinking such a thing.

General Skywalker's expression and voice were somber. "Let's move out. They're going to be looking for us now, so everyone be on alert." As the others shuffled into the corridor, he hung back until Rex drew up beside him. He placed a hand on the captain's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Rex. Dodger was a good soldier. We can best honor him by succeeding at this mission."

It was only a few words, but words well-chosen and heartfelt. Words that meant everything to Rex at that moment.

The captain nodded once. "Thank you, Sir."

If Rex had believed in blessings, he would have counted them then and there. But if blessings did not exist, at least he could believe that the cosmos had given him the greatest of honors. Yes . . . he'd been given the best of the best. No one could compare to General Skywalker.

* * *

"Sir, one of the cargo shuttles was cleared for landing but never arrived."

Battle droids might have been machines, but they had enough sentience to recognize when they were putting their own existence in peril.

Giving bad news to Osi Sobeck always fell into that category. The warden had a ghastly temper; and being that he himself was a true sentient, a creature of flesh and blood, he had absolutely no qualms, not even a flutter, when it came to brutalizing and destroying his own mechanized staff.

Announcing an errant shuttle might not merit a visit to the disassembly shop or a blaster bolt to the head, but it could bring about any number of lesser reactions.

The droid that had given the dreaded news was preparing for the worst when, much to his good fortune, even worse news came from another droid who was monitoring the perimeter scans.

"Sir, a mine in Sector 9G was just detonated."

Sobeck immediately ran through the possibilities, and at the top of the list was infiltration. The Jedi had launched their rescue attempt. He'd been expecting this. "Mindless droids," he ground out, furious that an earlier notification of the missing shuttle might have given him a headstart against the enemy. "Activate all security protocols. Lock everything down. Where are my special units?"

"They are here, Sir."

The door opened, admitting a team of commando droids.

"We have intruders," Sobeck stated. "Start in Sector 9G. Find them. Kill them. Don't let them get to the prisoner."

* * *

The sound of the klaxon confirmed what Anakin already knew. The detonation of the mine had given away their presence and put the Citadel on high alert. It seemed that, around every corner, battle droids were scurrying here and there; surely, there could be no doubt in Sobeck's mind of the object of the infiltration. That meant, in Anakin's reasoning, two possibilities: Sobeck would order an increase in the security around Master Piell, and he might very well order the torture be accelerated in order to gain the information – that was, if Master Piell had not already cracked.

" _Yeah, that's not likely,"_ Anakin said to himself. _"He's too crusty to give in."_

Up ahead of him, Ahsoka was running point. "Clear," she announced quietly after a gaggle of droids had trotted past at the far end of the corridor.

Anakin heard Rex behind him. "Their detection system, General." He looked up to see the sensors to which Rex was referring, then turning to Fives, who was running beside him, "Take our their surveillance."

Fives dropped to one knee and fired a single shot, taking out the forward camera/sensor. The destruction of the sensor triggered an automated response of laser fire from the ceiling- and wall-mounted hubs; but these were easily taken out by the accurate aim of the clones and a few swipes of light saber.

There was, however, no chance to breathe a sigh of relief. At the opposite end of the corridor, a bluish-white light spread from wall to wall, crackling and hissing as it advanced rapidly towards them.

"The walls are electrified," Bounce said rather unnecessarily, for everyone could see that fact. He turned and began to run. "Go, go, go!" He could feel the tingle of the electricity at his back. He wasn't going to be able to outrun it. His only hope was to attempt a dive to safety. A side passage was only a few meters ahead. He put everything he had into one powerful, final leap, going in head-first and somersaulting across the floor, coming up on his feet. He whirled around just in time to see the field go past him. And as it passed, it left a body on the floor . . .

"Longshot!" Cody cried out from the opposite side of the corridor in which Bounce was standing.

Bounce sprang forward, crouching down beside his fallen brother, but he knew there was nothing to be done. The shock from the electric field had killed Longshot instantly. Bounce could at least be grateful that it had been a quick death.

"We must keep moving," Obi-wan said gravely.

There was no hesitation, no lingering, no voicing of dismay at the lack of even a moment's consideration for a dead man. Just one more dead clone among the many hundreds of thousands that had already died in the act of fulfilling the role for which they were created.

At least, for Rex, he could hang onto General Skywalker's words, that the best way to honor the dead was to complete the mission for which they had died.

It was an encouraging mindset . . . a mindset that was about to be put to the test in ways Rex had never imagined.

* * *

 ****NOTE: I love in the episode where, after being unfrozen, as Anakin and Ahsoka are arguing, you see Rex and Cody in the background. That's the scene where Rex flicks his finger across his breast plate. Silly me, but I always thought, "What is he doing? It's like someone flicking lint off their coat." Anyway, I just had to include it (and find a reason to explain why he was doing it).**


	89. Chapter 88

_**Dear Reader, Starting 2018 with a chapter on New Year's Day! I fully intend to have this entire story finished this year! Of course, intentions don't always meet reality. We still, after all, have Umbara, Fives' Death, Echo's Resurrection, the climax, and the denouement. But my hope is to finish it up by this time next year. As for the chapter title, it's meant to refer to the fact that Tarkin and Piell are both disagreeable characters, variations on a theme. Also, in this chapter, I really start to focus on Anakin's sometimes dark thoughts and how Rex is also a variation on Anakin in that they both tend to see things in the same light. Since we all know the running and chasing scenes in the Citadel arc, I added a lot of internal character dialogue and thought process to give my readers something more than a mere recounting of what we see in the series. Happy 2018, peace, health and happiness, and God Bless.**_

* * *

Chapter 88 Variations on a Theme

 _"The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently._ _"_

 _The Dawn  
_ Friedrich Nietzsche

Anakin drew aside into an alcove off the corridor. Obi-wan and Ahsoka joined him.

"We can't just go running from place to place looking for him," Anakin stated. "Master Plo said there were three likely locations where he might be held. I say we hack into their security system and see if we can find him."

"Dodger was the expert at that," Ahsoka reminded them. "Do we have anyone else who's good at that sort of thing?"

"Echo's probably our best chance," Anakin replied. "He makes it his business to know a lot about everything." He raised his voice slightly. "Echo!"

Echo left his position, monitoring the corridor, and reported to his general.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Can you hack into their security system? Access their live feeds and see if we can find where they'll holding Master Piell?"

"I can give it a try, Sir," Echo replied. "I can't promise anything, and as soon as I'm in, they'll detect the intrusion." An afterthought came to him. "Unless . . . "

"Unless what?" Obi-wan inquired.

"Just a second, General." Echo used his wrist-pad to pull up a series of data sets in his HUD. With lightning speed, he scrolled through the figures; shortly, he spoke in a low voice brimming with satisfaction. "Yes, yes, this might work."

"What is it? What are you doing?" Again, this from Obi-wan.

"When the Separatists took over the Citadel, they upgraded the security systems using their own technology," Echo explained. "After their outpost on Teran was overrun the first time, our boys found all sorts of shipping manifests and warehouse inventories. The equipment that went to the Citadel all passed through Teran. It's all right here." They couldn't see his pleased smile. "The EMPEX-4001 Broad Security Platform, preprogrammed with a twelve-digit access code. And while I'm sure they've changed the code, the original code can still be used to access at least the admin functions."

"Meaning?" Ahsoka asked.

"Meaning that if there's a serial number on the control panel, I can find the original access code and gain access to the admin functions," Echo explained. "It's one of the 4001's main weaknesses, but the Separatists were more interested in getting a quick product than getting a strong one."

"If you get in, will you be able to find Master Piell?" Anakin asked.

"I think so. And if I go in using the access code, it probably won't trigger an alarm like hacking in would."

Ahsoka raised a doubtful eyebrow. "Probably?"

"I can't make any guarantees, Commander."

"Let's do it," Anakin said decisively. "There's a control panel just ahead. We'll keep an eye out. You get to work."

As Echo carried out his assignment, Cody moved to stand beside Rex. "I don't like this. It got very quiet all the sudden."

"They may have moved most of their forces to guard Master Piell," Rex ventured. "Or it may just be that they've lost track of us. I don't see any cameras in this area."

"Just because we can't see them doesn't mean there aren't any," Cody cautioned.

"How large a contingent do you think they have here?" Rex asked curiously. "Intel had no numbers. Maybe, if their numbers are limited, they need every droid they've got to defend the location where Piell is being held." A pause. "And the Citadel being what it is, maybe they figured they didn't need a large contingent, that escape would be impossible anyway."

"Those are a lot of 'ifs' and 'maybes', Rex," Cody replied. "The bottom line is we're flying blind. We knew it was going to be this way, but we didn't expect to be detected so quickly. From here on in, we can't afford to rely on guesswork."

"I'm in," Echo announced.

Anakin was beside him in a heartbeat. "Can you access the cameras?"

"Emmm . . . yes." He sounded excited. "I can't manipulate them. I can only get static views."

"That's fine," Anakin said. "We need you to check three locations. The main prison block, the level 6 isolation cells, and the medical wing cells."

Echo first pulled up the images of the main prison block, revealing empty cell after empty cell. And then—

"Woah, woah!" Anakin put a hand on Echo's shoulder.

"Here's something, Sir," Echo said at the same time.

"Those are Republic troops."

"Yes, Sir."

"But . . . I don't see Master Piell," Anakin frowned.

Echo quickly switched to the next camera location: the level 6 isolation cells; and here the question was answered, for the grainy image revealed Master Piell suspended in a traction field, being subjected to the torturous devices of his interrogators.

"Good work, Echo," Anakin commended him. "Can you show us what security looks like outside that cell?"

A second later, Anakin was looking at precisely what he'd suspected: an increased presence in the corridor approaching the isolation cells. "Looks like they're waiting for us. We don't want to disappoint them. Can you disable the cameras?"

"Probably," Echo replied. "At least, temporarily."

"Do it."

"Sir, what about the other prisoners?" Echo inquired.

Anakin had expected this question, and he already had his answer prepared; for to him, there could be no doubt. "Our main task was to rescue Master Piell." A pause. "But I won't leave without them."

* * *

"Sir, all our security cameras just went dead."

Osi Sobeck turned slowly, his shoulders drawing up in the tenseness of boiling rage. "What do you mean, dead?"

"They're not transmitting images anymore, Sir."

"None of them?"

"Not one."

Sobeck swung his arm out in a fit, backhanding the hapless droid, sending it careening into the console. "Get them back online, you idiot! This has to be the work of the Jedi! They think they can come in here and save their friend . . . don't they know this is the Citadel? No Jedi leaves here . . . alive."

* * *

"Once you draw them out, the rest of us will take care of them. This needs to be fast and quiet."

Cody nodded his acknowledgment of General Kenobi's orders. "Yes, General."

Obi-wan turned to the others. "You'll only have a matter of seconds to get the droid poppers in there. Too soon, and the droids will turn back. Too late, and we lose the element of surprise." He looked to his first-in-command once more and put a hand a Cody's shoulder. "Don't over play it."

"You must be mistaking me for Captain Rex," Cody quipped.

With that, Cody carried out one of the oldest tricks in the book – and one of his favorites. The team was holding, concealed, at a juncture between the corridor they were in and the corridor that led into the isolation block. At a motion from General Kenobi, the commander rounded the corner at speed, coming to abrupt halt, feigning shock at the presence of the droids guarding the entrance. He quickly reversed course, but instead of heading back the way he'd come, he took off in the opposite direction. The witless droids followed; and turning the corner, found themselves face-to-face with the combination of droid poppers and light sabers.

Wanting to maintain their stealth, the team had foregone the use of blasters – too much noise.

Now, the hope was that none of the droids had gotten off a warning prior to be silenced.

"Ahsoka, stay here and keep an eye open," Anakin ordered. "We won't be long."

Kenobi led the way into the isolation block, moving slowly and cautiously. Looking up, he saw at least five cameras.

"Echo, are the cameras still out?"

"I can't say for sure, General Kenobi," came the reply. "But I wouldn't count on it."

Anakin, meanwhile, was looking at the unmanned control console. "It looks like only one cell is in use. Let's go."

The cell in question was at the far end of the block, and there was not a single battle droid in between. It seemed that Sobeck had concentrated his defenses outside the ward, and now the rescuers had a clear path.

No sooner had they come to the door than Anakin gestured Fives and Echo to the front. "Take us in."

The two squad mates did not hesitate. They did not need to form a plan. They had a fair idea, from the earlier surveillance images, what they would find behind the door. All they needed to do was bust in and start blasting. Not exactly the finessed style an ARC trooper might employ, but sometimes the best course of action was the simplest. Nothing else about this mission had been simple, and both clones were feeling a bit of tension in their trigger fingers . . .

There were only a handful of commando droids in the room, and they were taken completely by surprise. Fives and Echo made quick work of them. Coming in directly behind them, Rex took out the torture droid with a single shot.

"Secure the exits," General Skywalker commanded, igniting his light saber and slicing through the suspension field's control grid.

General Kenobi reached out and took hold of General Piell as the field released him. Lowering him gently to the floor, he inquired, "Master Piell, are you alright?"

"Obi-wan, what took you guys so long?"

Piell's gruff humor was reassuring in its own way, but it was a false reassurance, for not a single soul present in that room believed that the hard part was now over. The rescue had been made. The escape still lay on the murky horizon.

"At least your sense of humor is still intact," Anakin noted.

Indeed, General Piell seemed to be no worse for his ordeal. The Lannik Jedi Master's brittle, caustic demeanor was already on display in full force. He answered with a defiant sneer, "It takes more than they got to break me, young Skywalker."

General Kenobi retrieved his light saber and handed it to him.

"So, you have the coordinates for the Nexus route?" Anakin pressed, fully business.

"I have them, alright," Piell replied. "Half of them, anyway. My captain has the other half." A pause. "I erased the computers when we were boarded, then had both of us memorize part of the intel. That way, if, somehow, I cracked, the information would be useless to them without the other half."

Rex, standing behind his general and partly concealed in the shadows, listened to this exchange with cool interest and an admirable effort to not let the past taint the present. Part of his creed as a soldier, as the ultimate professional, was to never let his personal opinions interfere with the performance of his duty.

And as long as Master Piell didn't do anything to cast about aspersions, Rex would hold fast to his ideals. Looking around the cell, the captain decided that allowances must be made for what had likely transpired within these walls. It looked more like a torture chamber than a prison cell. They'd seen on the cameras that Master Piell had, indeed, been subjected to torture, despite showing no signs of it now. Somewhere deep down in the part of Rex's brain where unconscious thought teetered just on the verge of conscious thought, was the idea that, if they'd wanted to succeed in obtaining the information, they'd made a big mistake by leaving the job up to a droid. A Copian would have extracted every jot of information desired – and then some. And while this meandering, filamentary concept bubbled along just beyond formal awareness, it did spark a memory in Rex's mind: the memory of Admiral Vrenhke and the attack on the Monastica, how close he had come to ending up as the Copian's prisoner, and then what would have happened?

"Where's your captain?" Obi-wan's inquiry refocused Rex's attention.

"Being held with the other officers, I assume."

Anakin drew in a deep breath. "We're going to need a new plan."

"General," Echo interrupted. "We saw them on the surveillance cameras. The men we saw in the other cell. That had to be them."

"That's right," Anakin said. "We know where they're being held. Now, we just have to figure out a way to get there."

Master Piell was already headed for the door. As he passed Rex, he turned his head slightly. "I'm sure your hotshot captain can find a way. If I recall, he's very good at sneaking around problems."

Rex stiffened. The tone of voice had not been exactly accusatory or belittling, but it had certainly made clear the fact that General Piell had not forgotten the moment between him and Rex in the Resolute's hangar bay . . .

Krebs! Rex hadn't even seen General Piell since that day. Was it really possible that the general still held a grudge? How could a man—a Jedi, no less!—continue to harbor ill will over an accident? Well, a partial accident . . . okay, maybe no accident at all. But that wasn't Rex's fault. Enh, not fully. He'd only been in charge of overseeing the task . . .

Rex scowled beneath his helmet. He was guilty as hell.

But then, sometimes a man—a clone—had to take matters into his own hands. That's what Denal had done, and Rex had let him, even congratulated him afterwards.

"The best," General Skywalker immediately came to his captain's defense, turning the swipe into a compliment. "I'm lucky to have him."

"Luck is for fools, Skywalker," Piell replied sardonically. "The stakes here are high. I'd rather depend on skill."

Rex was not about to allow his Jedi to be dismissed so readily. "We all depend on skill, General Piell; but none of us would turn down a little good luck."

Piell looked at the 501st captain and smiled in a strangely indulgent, yet challenging way. "You haven't changed, Captain. That's good. Let's see if you have them both: skill and luck."

"I'm not in charge of this mission, General Piell," Rex said, stating the obvious.

Anakin picked up. "And there's no easy way out. For any of us."

* * *

" _They don't even know I can see their every move."_ Sobeck felt the building anticipation as he watched the intruders moving cautiously through the halls. For a minute or two, he'd lost the feed on the surveillance cameras, but now it was back. He'd been admittedly stunned and angry to discover that his prisoner was no longer in his cell; but he'd consoled himself with the task of tracking him and his rescuers through the corridors. The prospect of unleashing his commando droids on them was enough to get his heart pumping. _"You will never get out of here. Not until I have what I want. And after that, Count Dooku will just have to be happy with Jedi corpses as with coordinates."_

The grin deepened across his reptilian face. The commandos had them now . . . any escape route was about to be cut off.

* * *

It was instinctive.

Or . . . perhaps it was a learned trait.

Obi-wan couldn't remember ever doing it with his fellow Jedi. But with his clone troopers, it was second nature.

The moment any trouble showed up, he would step to the forefront, placing himself squarely between that enemy and his soldiers. It wasn't anything he'd been taught during his Jedi training. Certainly, he'd never imagined that he would be filling the role of general, leading a battalion of fighting men. But from his very first battle as commander of the 212th, he'd taken to being out front, not only as the one in charge but with the intention of protecting his men . . . as best he could. Still, by the Force, he knew that his efforts only went so far in the face of a determined enemy.

He'd noticed that Anakin did the same thing. As did Ahsoka.

It wasn't as if Obi-wan felt the clones needed to be protected at all costs. No, not in any sense. And no doubt his troopers, Cody especially, would find it highly insulting to imagine that they were viewed as the ones needing defending when they had been bred for the particular purpose of waging war.

True, deflecting enemy fire allowed the clones more freedom to find their own targets. So, there was a practical purpose to it.

But Obi-wan knew there was more to it than that. These men had placed their trust in him, and the responsibility he felt towards them had developed into a series of certain reflexive actions and reactions. In this way, he believed he was doing what a Jedi should do under the circumstances: give his troops the very best he had to offer, balance their safety and well-being with mission requirements, and never, ever permit himself to grow attached to the men serving under him. Jedi Code aside, there were too many losses, too many moments that would result in heartbreak if he allowed it.

Why, even Cody must not fall into the realm of attachment. As much as Obi-wan respected and admired his first-in-command, as much as he would mourn his loss—were such a thing ever to happen—he was always careful to keep his affection for the commander at arm's length. And, if he were any judge, that seemed to be the way Cody wanted things, too.

Anakin, on the other hand . . .

Obi-wan worried about him. The depth of Anakin's attachments was equaled only by the depth of his emotion. For a Jedi, not a good combination. While Obi-wan could only speculate on his former padawan's attachments, there was one relationship that required no guess work.

Anakin's connection with Rex.

Obi-wan often mused that the degree of trust between the two was greater than that between Anakin and himself. And, with each clone being detectable as an individual within the Force, Obi-wan had not had to reach far to discover that Rex's driving motivation, whatever it may have been before coming to the 501st, was now predicated upon his loyalty to his commanding general.

As for Anakin, Obi-wan had discerned within weeks of Rex's arrival in the 501st that there was nothing Anakin would not do for him. Rex was his general's constant supporter, even in the face of decisions by the Jedi Council that often did not go Anakin's way. Rex had become the bulwark, and this was a disconcerting thought to Obi-wan; for he firmly believed that if anything were to happen to Rex, the impact on Anakin could be disastrous.

Rex might have been a clone, replaceable by any one of a million other clones. But not to Anakin, that much Obi-wan knew for certain.

Obi-wan stepped in front of his soldiers and ignited his light saber in the face of a trio of commando droids. Behind him, three more appeared. It was a quick battle, and at its conclusion, the six commando droids lay in pieces on the floor.

The team pressed on, but they hadn't gone far when a high-pitched tone stopped them in their tracks. An instant later, their weapons were pulled out of their hands by the unseen force of a magnetic field emanating from the ceiling. But weapons weren't the only things to be affected. Anakin's metallic prosthetic arm drew him up off the floor, and he dangled from the ceiling, his light saber a meter away. Almost immediately, an electrical shock went through his body; and in those few seconds of agony before losing consciousness, his mind was filled with the images. The images of metal twisting and warping against an unseen power, the shattering and exploding of glass, the rupturing of pipes and hissing of steam . . . these were images he had seen before; but now, there was something else. Now, he knew himself to be standing in the center of it all. Anakin could see himself, unfazed, unmoved by the destruction, both seen and unseen—for he knew there was much greater devastation beyond those walls, and . . . he didn't care. The Anakin of the vision did not care what terrible things might be happening beyond his range of sight. He didn't care that Commander Cody was standing at his side, palpably unnerved at what was happening. None of that mattered. The only thing of significance was there before him—and while this facet of the vision remained obscure, Anakin knew instinctively.

" _Rex!"_

"You fools!" Sobeck's voice came over the Citadel's comm system. "I hope you enjoy your reunion with your fellow Jedi, because you're going to be my guests for a very long time." As he spoke, more commando droids arrived from both ends of the corridor, trapping the team between them.

A glance of mutual understanding passed between the three Jedi still on the floor, and no sooner had the warden finished his mocking than they used the Force to push the droids back.

Except the droids didn't go anywhere. They slid back only several meters before bending backwards at the hip joints.

"They're magnetized," Obi-wan announced. Internally, he chastised himself. _"Of course, they are! They're made of metal! That's why they're not on the ceiling right now!"_ He pushed again with increased effort. He might at least be able to keep them from using their own weapons, firmly in their mechanized grips.

Behind him, Ahsoka and Master Piell did the same.

The clones did not need to be told that this was their opportunity, and they needed to take advantage of it. As the commandos fired off wild and errant shots, the clones rushed forward to take them head-on; but it was not an easy task. Even Cody, whose hand-to-hand combat skills were second-to-none, found himself landing flat on his back against this enemy. Rex and Echo combined their strengths, pouncing on top of a single droid and forcing its own weapon around on it. Rex pulled the trigger. One down, but that appeared to be the extent of their success. The droids were simply too strong, and even the combined effort of three Jedi was beginning to lose ground. The droids were regaining their upright positions.

Above them, as Anakin returned to his senses, his gaze took in the scene below him, and he grew tense with anger. It was a peculiar rage. He saw the handful of remaining clones going hand-to-hand with much stronger machines. He saw his fellow Jedi using the Force to hold the droids at bay. And yet, he was disgusted with the fact that it took three Jedi to pin the droids in place. Had he been down on the ground, he would have been able to Force-propel the things so hard, they would have smashed into pieces against the walls. He could at least forgive Ahsoka; she was a padawan. But Obi-wan and Piell were Jedi masters.

Anakin looked up to where his light saber was fixed to the ceiling, just within arm's reach. He reached out for it, only to feel the pain of another shock coursing through his body. But this time, he had expected as much; this time, he was prepared and determined.

Down below, Rex looked up at the lightning field surrounding his general and found himself in awe. Not that being in awe of General Skywalker was anything new, but to see him struggle through what must be true agony, to watch him grasp the light saber between his crackling fingers, and then to take out the device generating the magnetic field . . .

. . . there were times when Rex felt he was in the presence of one of the greatest powers in the known universe. And his pride at calling the possessor of that power 'general' was nothing to be taken lightly.

With the magnetic field destroyed, the weapons dropped down, and the fight was over in seconds. Rex started towards his general, who was still on his hands and knees.

Echo beat him to it.

"Are you alright, Sir?"

Anakin got to his feet. "Yeah. Let's get out of here."

As they ran past him, Rex, guarding the rear, felt his pride extend to his two Domino Squad members. Echo had turned out to be everything Rex could have asked for in a trooper: fearless, conscientious, and loyal to a fault. As for Fives, long gone were the days of holding back, of feeling out of place. Still, he preferred to work solo—or with only Echo—although he had developed a certain charisma that attracted others to him. Rex wasn't sure it was the kind of charisma that lent itself well to teamwork or leadership; but there was no denying Fives was one extremely capable, extremely dependable trooper.

Rex turned to follow the others. He saw the camera on the wall above him. "From me to you," he said under his breath, and as a parting gesture, took out the camera with a single blaster bolt.

* * *

By the time they reached the main prison block, having fought their way past several more droid encounters and other Citadel traps, Anakin had consigned his worry for his captain to a corner of his mind, where he was working hard to keep it from rearing up and distracting his focus from a mission that require every scintilla of his attention.

Still, he found that he was keeping Rex on the periphery of his awareness at all times, subtle enough not to tip off his captain, or anyone else, for he knew Rex would never tolerate being coddled.

Anakin dropped to one knee outside the cell door and focused his concentration on detecting the enemy on the other side of the door. He was hesitant to open himself to the Force for fear that the visions would force their way in – they seemed to occur without any rhyme or reason. Yet, if he were going to see the guard on the other side of the door, he had no choice.

Ahsoka stood at the ready behind him.

The sound of shuffling out in the hallway must have been enough to draw the droid's attention, for Anakin could almost immediately sense a non-human presence directly behind the door. He closed his eyes, called on the Force, and ignited his light saber, piercing the cell door. He could feel the charge run through the blade and up into the handle, telling him he'd hit home. He turned off the light saber, Obi-wan opened the door, and Ahsoka leaped in with an aggression that took out the remaining guard in one brutal move.

General Piell entered behind Ahsoka, and Rex came to stand on the threshold.

Inside the cell were six men: five clones and one non-clone. Of the clones, two appeared to be bridge officers, while three must have been combat arms, for they wore only their bodysuits, armor having been removed. The sole non-clone got to his feet as his rescuers entered.

"General."

"Captain Tarkin," Piell replied, the perpetual sneer present in his voice.

"I never thought I'd see you again," Tarkin stated, "And you've brought friends." Much like the general with whom he served, the captain had a derisive air of superiority about him. There was also something very refined and precise about the man. Even in captivity, his appearance was pristine. Tall, lean, immaculate in his uniform, he was as cool as a Hothian Penschwaw, giving no indication that he was even concerned about being a prisoner.

Rex, entering the cell with Cody and going to ascertain the condition of the cell's other occupants, could feel the tension between Captain Tarkin and General Piell; but knowing what he did of General Piell's demeanor, he was not surprised. If Captain Tarkin was able to go toe-to-toe with such a disagreeable man, and in the process was disagreeable himself, Rex considered the scales to be even.

"Tarkin, this is Obi-wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker," Piell stated.

Captain Tarkin hardly seemed interested in introductions. "Now that you've found us, how do you expect to get us out? If they've locked down this fortress, there are at least ten squads on their way. It's going to be impossible to escape."

Obi-wan spoke up. "What if we split up? My team will create a diversion while Anakin leads the others away. That way, if one of us is captured, the enemy will only have half the information and not all of it."

Captain Tarkin was not convinced. "General Kenobi, I think it's better if we stick together. A stronger force would have a better chance of protecting the information."

"Not in this situation," Obi-wan replied, a hint of frustration entering his tone. He turned away as the captain continued making his case.

"But surely, we'd have more strength in numbers rather than divide us."

"Obi-wan has a point," General Piell said. "I'll go with him. You go with Skywalker."

There was something so flippant, so scornful in the general's voice, as if the idea of teaming up with Skywalker was somehow inferior to being with Kenobi, that Rex was hard-pressed to hold his peace. He knew better than to speak out against a ranking officer, even in defense of his general. Besides, General Skywalker was more than able to defend himself; and it was perfectly possible that Skywalker did not perceive the same insult that Rex had perceived. After all, Rex's impression of Piell was already tainted. And truth be told, Rex was glad of the reprieve from Piell's presence.

Anakin, on the other hand, was not convinced of the wisdom or logic of Obi-wan's plan. Yes, splitting into two teams and making sure Piell was on one team and Tarkin on the other might be better protection against compromise of the data, but it also meant the added coordination—hit or miss—of the two teams meeting back up at the shuttle to make their escape; not to mention that, instead of leaving with one extra man who happened to be a Jedi, they now had six more, none of whom were Jedi. Add to that, the fact was that Sobeck had cameras everywhere. Tracking the progress of two teams would be just as easy as tracking that of one team.

To Anakin's mind, Captain Tarkin had just as valid a point as Obi-wan. However, Anakin found the man so disagreeable, so patently ungrateful that he was not quite ready to embrace his ideas. And it would not have mattered anyway, for Obi-wan and Piell were already moving out with Cody and his two 212th troopers, as well as three of the captured clone officers.

"I guess that settles it," Anakin said, tongue-in-cheek. "Captain Tarkin, you're with me." He turned to his first-in-command. "Rex, let's get out of here."


	90. Update

Dear Readers, just a quick note. I had unexpected eye surgery this past Monday, so I am taking a couple weeks to rest my eye and recuperate. Peace, CS


	91. Chapter 89

_**Dear Reader, Sorry for the delay, but my vision is slowing improving, so it was time to finish up this chapter and the next. I took some liberty with the dialogue in these chapters, since it's kind of hard to only write what's in the actual episode. I wanted to show Tarkin as something more than just the a**hole they depict him as in the series. No mistake, he's a bad dude, but he's not just blindly wicked. The man has a brain, and when I think of the relationship between him and Vader in A New Hope . . . well, he needed to have something more to him than just being arrogant and stupid. Enjoy. CS**_

Chapter 89 The Tunnels and Captain Tarkin

" _It wasn't that he was joyless; rather, he lacked peace of mind. And that suited him just fine. He did not look for happiness. The most he ever hoped for was satisfaction. You well know that satisfaction can make a man cruel. Joy has never made anyone cruel."_

 _In Step with Onokin  
_ Michaela Brenner

* * *

This was the place.

Right behind this panel, the stone wall was less than half a meter thick. And beyond that . . .

Anakin drew out his light saber and begun cutting. Less than thirty seconds later, he and his team were entering the network of tunnels surrounding the Citadel.

Ahsoka, leading the way, sprang ahead to check the passageway, a canyon-like flume much like the one they had used to sneak in, with a shallow ledge wending its way above the lava flow below.

"This is one of the original fortress tunnels," Echo stated.

"The advantage of old archive data," Rex replied, stepping inside.

"The tunnel's clear!" Ahsoka called out.

Anakin felt a moment of relief – his first since setting out on this ill-conceived mission. "Looks like Obi-wan's distraction worked. Things seem to be going as planned." He was not ready yet to think about what the distraction might have been and how Obi-wan and his team were going to extricate themselves from it. That was Obi-wan's problem.

Captain Tarkin, however, was not ready to proffer or claim success. "It's when things do not go as planned that concerns me. What then?"

Rising to the challenge, Anakin replied with testy confidence, "It's when things don't go as planned that we Jedi are at our best." He began to walk away into the tunnels. "Trust me."

"I reserve my trust for those who take action, General Skywalker."

It was not lost on Anakin that Tarkin was exceedingly secure in his own thoughts and opinions, that he did not appear in the least bit frightened or even remotely worried. The man was an emotional steel mill, mentally tough and tenacious. Not only that, but he was a Naval captain speaking to an Army general—a Jedi, no less—with no concern about the lesser station he occupied.

Anakin did not even deign to face him. "Then let me remind you: _we_ saved _you_ back there. And I reserve my trust for those who understand gratitude, _Captain_ Tarkin." But if he thought his words might return the insult he perceived from the captain, he was mistaken; for Tarkin appreciated blunt words and indelicate dealings. He had no use for the soft sell, the cajoling, the light touch of diplomatic measures. He believed in force and its decisive use. General Skywalker's brusque manner suited him fine and drew out a bit of respect that he had not felt earlier.

Standing at a discreet distance, Rex listened to the exchange while keeping an eye out for any pursuit coming from within the Citadel. He had made a practice of gauging how his commanding general felt about those whom he met, for he considered General Skywalker to be a good judge of character. And, as first-in-command, he knew it was smart to stay on the same side as his general. He motioned to Echo and Fives to put the sliced-away section of wall back in place, not that it would fool anyone – but it might make their escape route a _little_ less noticeable.

Several minutes into their traverse of the tunnels, Anakin spoke into his wrist comm.

"Artoo, are you and your battle droids ready to go?" Then, upon receiving the whistled answer, he continued, "Alright, get the ship fired up. We'll meet you at the pipeline exit after you've picked up Obi-wan . . . assuming he's still on schedule."

As this conversation was taking place, at the end of the gaggle, Fives sidled up to his captain. "Captain, our two ground-pounders are starting to have some trouble. I don't know if they're going to be able to keep up." He was referring to the two rescued troopers accompanying them, both of whom were clearly sporting injuries of some kind or other, showing signs of exhaustion by tripping over their own feet and sagging against the tunnel walls for balance.

Rex was direct. "Make sure they do."

"We can't protect our rear and look after them at the same time, Captain," Fives replied, moderating his tone so as not to sound as if he were protesting.

Rex stopped, fixed Fives with a glare that, while not visible, was certainly detectable through his helmet.

Fives straightened up, his spine stiffening. "Yes, Sir. We'll keep an eye on them."

"That's the right answer, ARC trooper," Rex said with emphasis. "Rule Number One . . . " He could hear Colt's voice in his head. "Never leave a man behind."

A valiant sentiment, but one that was wholly inadequate to the waging of battle. A sentiment that would become less and less realistic as the war dragged on. A sentiment that, for Rex, would follow and haunt him to his last breath.

* * *

"General Skywalker, we think we've got a probe following us," Rex said into his closed comm. "It's staying out of sight, but Fives swears he heard the transmission beacon. They may be tracking us through the tunnels, Sir."

Anakin turned to Ahsoka, "Take the lead. I'm going up top."

"Up top?"

"Rex thinks we have a visitor," Anakin replied. "I can get a better view from the ledge above us."

"Understood, Master." She took over.

The group rounded a jutting corner of rock through a narrow fissure; and it was here that General Skywalker had set up his ambush. The probe, passing through the opening, went directly beneath his hiding place. Leaping down, one stroke of his light saber cleaved the machine neatly in half.

"Do you think it got our coordinates off to control, General?" Echo asked as Anakin caught up with the team.

"I'd say you can count it," Anakin replied. "But they still don't know which passageways we're going to take up ahead. We can still lose 'em."

"They'll send out another probe," Fives pointed out.

"I guarantee you they already have other probes looking for us," Anakin said. "The trick is to spot the probes before they spot us."

Up ahead, Ahsoka was walking alongside Captain Tarkin, who was very carefully keeping contact with the wall at all times, wary of the narrowness of the ledge, especially considering the churning, fiery fate that lay below. Still, his fear of falling did nothing to diminish his appreciation for the brilliance of design that was the Citadel. "I'm beginning to admire the design of this fortress. It's rather formidable to evade."

Ahsoka found his words repulsive. "How can you admire such a horrible place?"

"Ah, you reveal your shortsightedness," Tarkin replied. "This ordeal only demonstrates how effective facilities like the Citadel are. Pity it ended up in Separatist hands and not ours." He continued forward, continuing to marvel.

Catching up to Ahsoka, Anakin spoke up. "He has a point."

Ahsoka could not even find the words to express her disgust.

But Anakin had no interest in debating the matter. He had only one thought on his mind, and that was getting his team safely to the rendez-vous point.

"Okay, Snips, I need you to lead the group. Keep following the tunnel. I'll catch up."

Ahsoka reached out a hand. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Obi-wan's not here, so someone has to protect our flank," Anakin replied.

As her master retreated back down the passageway, Ahsoka simpered. "I guess it's a good thing I came along, after all."

The next thirty minutes were spent following the tunnel, with each turn revealing a scene much like the one before it. There were myriad connecting passageways, but Anakin had been clear.

" _Keep following the tunnel."_

That was what Ahsoka had done. She had endured the continued observations of Captain Tarkin, who, walking behind her, had not abandoned his glowing assessment of the wonders of the Citadel. She had ignored the air of superiority in his voice and manner. She had kept focused on her task. Even now, she pretended not to hear the conversation going on behind her.

Captain Tarkin was making it clear that he was not impressed with her. "I am concerned that the Jedi have elected this . . . child to lead the group."

"I've served with her many times, and I trust her, Captain." That was Rex.

Ahsoka felt a sense of vindication. Good ole Rex was defending her, standing up for her. On one level—the professional level—it felt good to know that the captain had her back, that he trusted her to lead him. On a personal level, any sort of praise from Rex swelled her heart and brought into closer relief, her desire for his attention on something more than the professional level.

But the glow of basking in such trust was short-lived; for around the next corner . . .

"Uh-oh."

Rex and Tarkin came up behind her.

"Dead end," Rex stated.

Ahsoka could feel Tarkin's gaze, disparaging and self-congratulatory, on her back. She felt embarrassed, not only for herself but for Rex and his expression of trust in her. Both she and Rex now looked like fools in Tarkin's eyes.

In this particular circumstance, she would have been surprised to know that Rex felt nothing even remotely approaching humiliation. He was simply waiting for her to take the next step; for Rex knew no mistake had been made. This was where they were supposed to be. General Skywalker had briefed the team on the entire plan, and this was part of it.

Ahsoka's hesitation was putting them all at risk. This, Rex could not comprehend.

In the seconds that followed, as Ahsoka stood pondering what was to be done, a sound in the tunnel behind the group caught Fives' attention. Looking around the edge of the rock, he saw several SBDs approaching, and before he could announce their presence to the others, the lead droid began firing.

Ahsoka ignited her light saber and leaped to the defense of her group.

And again, Rex could not fathom her choice of actions. He, Fives and Echo could put up a defense long enough for her to carry out her task. He was on the verge of saying something to her when General Skywalker dropped down from the ledges above and began taking down the enemy. He dropped the SBDs only to see a platoon of commando droids approaching.

"What happened?!" he demanded angrily. "Why didn't you blow the wall?!"

"I thought it was a dead end," Ahsoka ground out. She saw Rex crouching down behind Anakin, starting to slide his pack off, and motioning with his head for her to go to him.

"If Master Plo had really assigned you to this mission, he would have briefed you on the plan," Anakin scolded.

Ahsoka had no reply as she helped slide the pack off Rex's back. She then raced back to the wall to set the charges. The guilt was raging within her, along with its requisite counter-dose of indignance. Why, if she hadn't snuck onto this mission, they would still be trying to figure out how to get past the ray-shielded door into the facility. They wouldn't have anyone to lead them while Anakin covered their escape . . . well, that certainly wasn't true. Rex would have led them—she grimaced—and probably done a better job at it. She hadn't exactly been a boon to them on this mission . . .

. . . but it wasn't too late to show her worth. She set the explosives, and then, coming across several grenades in the pack, she ran back towards the fighting. The commandos had electro-shields which deflected the blaster fire being directed at them. But two perfectly tossed grenades rolled right under the shields, blowing the droids to pieces just as the wall was blasted asunder, as well.

It was an indication of poorly-placed hubris that prompted Ahsoka to pass her master with her head held high, reveling in her cleverness.

Anakin let it go. This wasn't the time to address a padawan's self-righteous attitude towards disobedience. He was more sure now than ever that Master Plo had not put Ahsoka on the team; this fact rankled him in no small way, for she had ended up putting the team at increased risk with her lack of knowledge of the plan. He could berate her for her conduct later. Right now, he needed to fill her in on the plan's details, so that no further misunderstandings befell them in their escape.

* * *

Cody was not the sort of man to lose faith. He'd not been engineered that way. Whenever even the slightest tappings of doubt pecked at the back of his thoughts, he quickly brushed them aside and concentrated his energy on the task at hand.

He was doing so right now, for his current situation was not lending itself to preserving his faith. Not that he doubted for one second that General Kenobi would get them out of this; but it was indisputable that this mission had been befallen by one disaster after the next.

Since separating from Skywalker's group, they'd lost one of the rescued prisoners rather gruesomely when the team had entered the ventilation system. A probe had detected their presence, initiating a closure of the duct's air-tight doors.

The clone officer hadn't been fast enough.

" _We lost one."_

General Piell had sounded almost clinical, but such was the general's manner.

There'd been no time to grieve, and quite frankly, Cody had been relieved that he was too far up in the duct to see the macabre scene that had played out below him. And he'd still held out hope that they would make it to the shuttle without any further impedance.

They'd made it through the ducts to a ventilation opening overlooking the shuttle, but Artoo had been nowhere in sight. General Kenobi had led them to the other side of the landing pad in an attempt to try and see if Artoo was present. The general hadn't known that their every move was being tracked remotely by camera and probes. They'd been intercepted on the upper platform and taken to the command center where Osi Sobeck now strode before them, brimming with outrage over the audacity of those who would try to break out of the Citadel.

General Kenobi was not intimidated by the Phindian. "I must say, you're not at all what I pictured. Someone with such a soft voice . . . "

But if Kenobi was not daunted in the face of Sobeck, nor was Sobeck daunted in the face of not one, but two Jedi.

"I want your half of the information," he ground out, sauntering down the line. "Give it to me now, or I'll start executing your men."

Piell replied, "This is war, Sobeck. We're all prepared to die to protect that intel."

Sobeck chuckled. "Really?" He took the blaster from one of the commando droids, pointed it at Daws' head, and fired. The trooper fell back against the wall and slid to the floor. He was dead.

A ripple of rage made its way up Cody's spine, yet he maintained his composure. This was not the first execution he'd been witness to. It would not be his last. The fact that it was one of his men – a veteran soldier – and that it had taken place right in front of him . . . these brought home the horror of his forced inaction, his own helplessness at the hands of the enemy.

Sobeck raised the weapon once again, point blank against Bounce's visor.

"Sir." The sound of the droid command post officer drew Sobeck's attention. "We have located the other group and our droids are closing in on them."

This announcement was enough to deflect the warden from his deadly course of action. He lowered the weapon and strode back towards his command viewer. "Your Jedi resolve only delays the inevitable," he growled. Now that his focus was on capturing the other group, he had no interest in his current prisoners. For Sobeck, the chase was more fun, more of a challenge. "Take them to interrogation. Torture them . . . slowly."

Cody filed out of the room, his hands still bound behind his head with electro-cords. He cast one final glance at Daws, but no words of farewell or sorrow would form in his mind. The vague sense of sadness that he felt at every death of a battalion member bobbed along at a level where he knew it would be safe and not interfere with his ability to act rationally, a level where the sense of loss would not overwhelm him. He was good at keeping such events in their proper context, in their proper compartment. His life and the lives of his men depended on his ability to do just that.

But there was one life that mattered more to him than any other; and based on the news that the other team had been found and was now being tracked, he wished there was a way he could warn Rex. Of course, the fact that Rex was with General Skywalker was enough to allay a great deal of Cody's concern. Skywalker always seemed to have an arsenal of tricks up his sleeve; and at the moment, it still seemed more likely that Rex's group would escape the Citadel while Cody's did not. Or, more to the point, Rex's group would have to rescue the other half of the team, for Skywalker would never leave them behind – not because of the split coordinates but out of loyalty.

It was while these thoughts passed through Cody's mind that a trio of battle droids suddenly appeared in front of them.

"We'll take them from here," the lead droid announced with as much authority as a battle droid could muster.

Cody noted the droid's blue markings . . . just like the markings on Artoo's reprogrammed droids.

"Uhh, I think we have a—" one of the escort droids began to protest.

"We'll handle it," the blue droid insisted.

Stupidity aside, the escort droid deferred to the superior rank of the blue droid and gave a crisp, "Yes, Sir!"

It was as simple as that, and a moment later, the prisoners were under the control of the trio of blue droids. They'd gone only a few meters when a familiar whistle drew their attention.

General Kenobi turned towards the side corridor from which the sound had come. "Good to see you, Artoo. I wondered where you'd been."

"The commander is pleased to see you, as well, Sir," the lead battle droid interpreted unnecessarily, "But would like to return to the shuttle as soon as possible."

"I couldn't agree more."

"What about General Skywalker, Sir?" Cody asked.

"Not to worry. He'll switch to plan B." The general sounded confident.

And as much as Cody wanted to share his confidence, thus far nothing had gone according to plan on this mission. Not from his perspective anyway. But knowing General Skywalker, the series of missteps that defined their progress to this point were probably being viewed as the basis for a great adventure, a chance for Skywalker to show his cunning, his ability to outsmart the enemy. And god knew, whatever trail the general blazed, Rex was less than a heartbeat behind, ready with encouragement and daring of his own.

They'd be safe. Cody nodded his own self-assurance. After all, both Rex and General Skywalker had a penchant for staying one step ahead of disaster. That sort of life on the edge seemed to be what invigorated them. Cody attributed to this to the fact that they both seemed to think they were invincible.

And events certainly made it appear that way.

* * *

Rex looked at the figures in his headsup display.

The vapors had only small traces of toxic compounds.

That was good, for the encasement tunnel through which he and the rest of the team were now climbing was full of the swirling wisps and misting clouds of neutralizing coolant that held down the temperature of the fuel pipeline running up the center of the tunnel.

They'd entered the tunnel twenty minutes ago, fully cognizant of the risk factors involved. After all, this had been part of the plan. The pipeline and its protective outer casement went up the side of a cliff for three hundred meters before making a ninety-degree turn to follow the terrain of the surface. The trip through the tunnel had been anticipated at thirty minutes; but that was before they'd known they'd have other rescued personnel with them, some of whom were injured. Their pace was slower than planned, increasing the possibility that something might go wrong.

The toxins in the fumes would need hours of exposure before reaching dangerous levels in the blood stream, and it was unlikely that the group would be in the tunnel for more than an hour, all told. Even those without the benefit of helmets and their filters should have little impact from the vapors.

Of greater concern was ensuring that any item of equipment that could generate a magnetic pulse was kept still and inert. The coolant in the encasement tunnel was every bit as explosive as the fuel it was meant to cool. The slightest tick, and they would all be riding high.

Rex craned his head upward as he climbed the utility ladder that marked their way to the top of the ridge where the tunnel turned from the perpendicular to the horizontal. Just above him, one of the injured troopers was moving slowly but steadily. Beyond him, Captain Tarkin was several rungs further up, and leading the way, General Skywalker.

At last, as they reached the top, Rex turned to see how the second injured trooper was holding up, and he was pleased to see that Echo and Fives had taken their brother in hand, one above and one below, to ensure he finished the climb.

Ater everyone had made it to the top and before continuing on, General Skywalker turned to the two injured men. "How are you two holding up?"

"We can make it, Sir," the first replied, while the second nodded his agreement.

"Take a minute to catch your breath," Anakin said, then turning to his padawan. "Ahsoka, go scout ahead. Make sure there are no surprises waiting for us."

"Yes, Master."

As Ahsoka sprang away down the tunnel, Captain Tarkin drew up beside Anakin. "I'm not convinced it's a good idea to stop moving, even for a short time."

Anakin was calm, and he spoke in a quiet voice so as not to be overheard. "These men— _your_ men, I might point out—need a few seconds to recover. They're injured. We need to take that into account." A pause. "I would think, as a commanding officer, you'd show a greater sense of duty towards your men."

"My sense of duty is for delivering these coordinates," Tarkin replied, adding with a degree of skepticism, "For whatever good they may do. It will only be a matter of time before the Separatists discover the coordinates and take action to prevent us using them."

Anakin stayed with the original subject. "I didn't ask you about the coordinates. I was talking about your men. You don't seem to care about them or their injuries."

"Not so, General Skywalker," the captain replied. "In fact . . . working with Jedi Master Piell has forced me into the role of . . . shall we say, intermediary. It's not a role I'm fond of. I don't believe in quibbling or bemoaning my circumstances. The clones who work for me are held to the same standard that I hold myself. There's nothing I can do to ameliorate their injuries, and soft words from me would have no beneficial result. They know their condition. They know that if they want to survive, they have to find it in themselves to keep up." A strange sort of scowl appeared on his face. "If you think I am harsh, let me assure you: General Piell wouldn't think twice about leaving them behind. He abandoned an entire ship full of men in order to save himself and the information he was carrying. Our troops were the sacrifice so we could get away."

"So, it looks like you abandoned them, too," Anakin pointed out.

"I was ordered to leave," Tarkin replied. "And then I found out why. I was to be one half of the puzzle. General Piell was the other half." A pause, and his voice took on a sardonic, bitter tone. "Thirty minutes in an escape pod, memorizing numbers. That was the ignominious end to my glorious command of the _Empferna_. And the rest of my crew, over 3,000 men . . . for the honor of giving their captain a chance to memorize numbers, they all perished. I will mourn their loss in my own way. The handful of survivors in the escape pod with me . . . they owe it to the dead to be strong. As do I. So, if you are looking for an expression of sympathy from me towards my men, you will be sorely disappointed."

Anakin was surprised by this explanation, yet there was something in the captain's words that stirred his heart. "Do you mourn them?" he asked pointedly. "I'm not sure you do."

"And I'm not interested in convincing you," came the equally sharp rejoinder.

Anakin shook his head slightly, saying at last. "I would never willingly leave my men behind."

Tarkin was snide. "You cannot know that with any certainty. Circumstances change a man's way of thinking. And you never know what the future holds. General Piell is fond of spreading his Jedi wisdom, such as it is. 'The future is always in motion.' In that, I would at least partially agree with him. A man never knows what the next moment will bring." The captain began walking. He spoke back over his shoulder, "You may very well feel the same way I do one day, General Skywalker. I wouldn't be surprised if you did."


	92. Chapter 90

_**Dear Reader, Thank you to my reviewers: The Unnamed Guest, Shadow Wanderer, and CT7567Rules. This chapter is kind of short, but I wanted to end it right at the "big event." Aftermath will follow in the next couple chapters until they get off the Citadel. Again, a little license with additional conversation and internal thoughts of the characters. And for those of you who have seen the "Bad Batch" episodes, you'll appreciate Echo's "show-off" comments with regard to General Skywalker, since that is where I got the idea from. And a special reply to the Unnamed Guest who asked a couple questions about my view of the Jedi in his/her last review: I guess I am a bit hard on some Jedi, but sometimes I honestly don't understand the decisions they make in the series. At any rate, Ki'weya (from the last arc started off as a jerk, but he turned out to be a good guy (and Top's new commander!). Master Shyfa (also the last arc) was a good guy, too! I just like to try and give them different personalities, strengths and weaknesses. And I actually love Ahsoka and Obi-wan, though there are times I don't understand how they act in the series. I admit that I cannot stand Master Piell, so he will not fare well at my hands. And Krell . . . well, we all know about him! lol! I hope that explains a little bit of where I'm coming from! Bis bald! CS**_

Chapter 90 A Glimpse of Courage

 _"With a kind of wry envy, Hazel realized that Bigwig was actually looking forward to meeting the Efrafan assault. He knew he could fight and he meant to show it. He was not thinking of anything else. The hopelessness of their chances had no important place in his thoughts. Even the sound of digging, clearer already, only set him thinking of the best way to sell his life as dearly as possible."_

 _Watership Down  
_ Richard Adams

* * *

"How much longer are we going to wander through this tunnel in the dark?" Captain Tarkin asked with more than a hint of exasperation in his voice.

Anakin kept walking but looked back over his shoulder as he spoke. "Captain Tarkin, haven't you learned to trust me by now?"

"You may have earned my trust, General Skywalker; but my faith in your comrades is still lacking," came the direct, honest reply, and it brought with it a certain sting.

"You lack faith in the Jedi," Anakin concluded, his voice low and bordering on accusation.

Tarkin did not beat around the bush. "I find their tactics ineffective. The Jedi Code prevents them from going far enough to achieve victory, to do whatever it takes to win – the very reason why peacekeepers should not be leading a war."

Anakin turned to face him with an unusual expression.

"Have I offended you?" Tarkin asked, and he sounded almost as if he were hoping such was the case.

Anakin was surprised to find himself in the strange position of agreeing with a man whom, moments earlier, he had found to be one of the most objectionable persons he'd ever met.

"No," he admitted. "I've also found that we sometimes fall short of victory because of our methods."

"Well, I see we agree on something."

The two men had not exactly been keeping their conversation a secret, and trailing behind them, Rex had listened with perhaps more interest than was seemly for an honor-bound officer like himself. Still, overhearing such talk went a long way towards keeping the captain informed of his general's mindset and opinions – good things to know over the course of a mission. And certainly, one item of note from what he'd just overheard was the clear turn in General Skywalker's manner as Captain Tarkin had expressed his dissatisfaction over the Jedi's involvement in the war.

It might have been too subtle for anyone else to notice, but Rex had been tucked in so close to his general's side for the past thirteen months that he could detect even the slightest change in his commanding officer's temperament. And what he had just discerned in the brief exchange between General Skywalker and Captain Tarkin was the burgeoning of a modicum of respect that the two men felt towards each other. Both were headstrong – that much was indisputable. Both were brilliant – Rex knew from seeing Skywalker in action, and he could tell Tarkin was a cut above simply by listening to him speak. Looking at him, there was something calculating and precise behind the man's eyes; something Rex might not have trusted had not General Skywalker appeared to be building a bridge in that direction. Both men were certain of themselves and not in the least bit lacking in confidence.

In an odd way, Rex considered that they actually seemed to be in sync with each other; that, despite the initial animus between them, they also had a chemistry that gave those around them a certain sense of security. Maybe a false sense of security.

Ahsoka's voice drew Rex's attention up to the top of the fuel pipe.

"I think I've found a way out."

"Well, it's about time," Tarkin stated. "I feared we would be overcome by the fumes before finding a way out." He began climbing up the rungs to the hatch Ahsoka had discovered, but Anakin held him back.

"Just a minute, Captain. Let Ahsoka go first and make sure it's safe."

Ahsoka was at the top of the ladder in a single leap. Opening the hatch just enough to see out, she found herself looking across a broad plain, interspersed with outcroppings of jagged rock; and approximately two kilometers away were the gleaming lights of the Citadel power facilities.

"What do you see, Snips?" Anakin asked.

"The coast is clear."

"Any sign of Obi-wan and the shuttle?"

"No. I don't see him or Artoo anywhere," she frowned, pushing the hatch fully open.

In the next instant, weapons were trained on her, and she realized her carelessness. She'd not bothered to do a 360-degree check before emerging, and the enemy had been hiding behind the hatch. She sprang into action, igniting her light saber and quickly dispatching two of the droids. "We've got to go!"

The sudden sounds of battle came as a surprise to those still in the pipeline. "There could a whole battalion of droids out there!" Tarkin protested.

Anakin, cool as ever, replied, "Better than hiding in a fuel line."

The firefight that ensued was short-lived. Anakin and Ahsoka covered the retreat of their group to the safety of one of the rocky spires, and Anakin's final tossing of a charge into the fuel line put an explosive end to the droids' pursuit.

Even as the droid parts were still raining down in twisted, smoking chunks, Anakin turned with characteristic easiness. "Let's go. Time for Plan B."

Tarkin, internally marveling at his companion's lackadaisical manner, replied incredulously, "There's a Plan B?"

"There's always a backup plan. We'll meet Artoo at Obi-wan's position."

"And . . . General Kenobi's position is the landing platform? Do you honestly believe that will be a safer location to meet up? The platform will be heavily guarded."

"You said you trusted me earlier, Captain Tarkin. I suggest you trust me now," Anakin replied. "Rex, get up there with Ahsoka and take point. They were able to track us through the fuel line. They'll probably be able to track us out here, too. Keep an eye open."

"Yes, Sir," Rex replied sharply, but before taking his position, he queried, "General, if you believe they might be tracking us even now, how do we expect to get to the airfield unnoticed?"

Anakin's answer was simple. "I don't expect us to get there unnoticed. What I expect . . . is a fight."

* * *

It just might work. Battle droids were notoriously stupid.

Stay calm. Key on General Kenobi for indications of any action to take.

Cody's faith still was not shaken. This part of the plan might be a bit on the crazy side, more the type of thing General Skywalker would think of; but it was as likely to succeed as not, and they were already committed. His group, still feigning to be prisoners and under the escort of Artoo's battle droids, approached the shuttle. Looking around him, he noticed what he had expected to see: the landing platform was well-protected with gun emplacements on raised platforms and a number of battle droids patrolling the area.

Several of those droids were now approaching the group. Cody braced for action.

"Hold it. Where are you going with these prisoners?" One of the droids asked.

"We're transferring them aboard the shuttle from Citadel to Point Terran," Artoo's droid commander replied smoothly. For a droid, he was impressive in his quickness with the lie. He actually sounded convincing. Except for the fact that the outpost on Point Terran had been overrun months ago . . .

"Point Terran? That fell into Republic hands a long time ago," the other droid pushed back.

"Uhhhh, it's back in Separatist hands now." The smoothness was gone.

It was at this point that Artoo interrupted with authority in a series of beeps and whistles. The droid picked up on the assist from his leader. "We have orders. We're coming aboard."

And that was all it took for the detail guarding the shuttle to step aside and allow passage.

It looked like it might work, after all.

And then, the tide turned. An internal alarm sounded in the droids' cranial unit, followed by an audible warning. "The prisoners are escaping with reprogrammed battle droids. Let no one onboard that shuttle."

The hapless droid turned its gaze towards the prisoners as the warning came through. General Kenobi smiled wickedly—a confirmation of the report—before igniting his light saber and slashing the droid in two.

Chaos erupted. The droids on the upper emplacements began firing their weapons, scattering Kenobi's group as they all ran to find cover.

Cody, finding himself with Bounce, one of the reprogrammed battle droids, and one of Tarkin's men, ended up behind a stack of conexes – hardly the sort of thing that offered good protection against laser cannons, but good enough in a pinch. He directed his small group around the back of the conexes to the other side where he'd hoped to at least get an angle on a shot towards the turrets. But as Bounce leaned out to squeeze off a shot, it became clear that the concentration of fire was too dense. The situation was not good. And to make things worse, more Separatist forces—Spider droids and commandoes—were arriving on the scene.

"Rex, we could sure use you and General Skywalker right about now," Cody muttered under his breath. Even as he spoke, it was as if Bounce had read his mind.

"Where's General Skywalker's group?! Do you think they're still at the pipeline?!"

"They should have switched to Plan B," Cody replied. _"I hope they switched to Plan B,"_ he added silently. But hopes were nothing to pin his current strategy on. Turning to the battle droid, he said, "Do you have grenades in that pack?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Let's have them."

The droid was carrying four grenades and two droid poppers. Cody intended to make use of all of them. Turning to Bounce and the other trooper, he handed them each a grenade. "Be precise."

Bounce gave a wry, unseen grin. Easy for the commander to order precision. Everyone in the 212th knew that Cody had the perfect touch when it came to delivering grenades or droid poppers. They were going to need every bit of that perfection if they were to have a chance of getting to the shuttle.

But as more and more droids arrived, it became clear that even Cody's expertise with the hand-tossed munitions was not going to be nearly enough. They were being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers and the constant rain of fire from the emplacements.

On the other side of the platform, Obi-wan and Piell were crouched down behind a wall of shipping containers. Obi-wan was coming to the same conclusion as his commander: the onslaught of enemy fire was too intense. Not even the combined mastery of two light saber-wielding Jedi was enough to deflect all the incoming bolts.

Then, as he was contemplating retreat, Obi-wan made out—with relief—the figures of Anakin and his team dropping down over the lip of the platform and running in his direction, firing as they came.

Crouching down beside him, Anakin quipped, "Sorry I'm late."

"How nice of you to join us," Obi-wan replied in kind.

It was not infrequent that the two engaged in this sort of sarcastic humor whenever a desperate situation befell them. On one hand, it presented a way of keeping hopelessness and defeat at bay. But it also showed, to their troops, the face of courage and determination. It was their way of saying that things were never as bad as they seemed; even if the truth was quite the opposite. Keeping the men's spirits up was paramount, for their lives might depend upon it. The moment a man gave up the fight, the battle was lost.

But with Anakin, there was another component to his somewhat quixotic humor. So confident was he in his abilities that the idea of his own demise never entered his head. Even if every other member of his team were killed, he could not envision that he himself would not be able to escape. Death, to Anakin, was a fate reserved for others. His own death, he could not fathom. And it was that vision of himself as indestructible that allowed him to move through danger without fear. In fact, it would not be amiss to say that danger did more to engender anger in Anakin than it did fear.

And anger, Anakin well knew, was not something a Jedi courted. Anger was to be spurned, quelled, dissipated. Whenever it reared its head, it was to be fought with all a Jedi's power; for anger was one step along the way towards the dark side of the Force. And anger combined with fear . . . ah, but Anakin feared nothing.

Nothing except loss. And he had already seen enough losses on this mission.

"The ship is surrounded!" Ahsoka stated.

"We need to launch a full forward assault and take that vessel!" Tarkin barked.

Obi-wan deferred. "We may have a bigger problem: those turrets. If we don't take them out, they will use them to destroy the shuttle and prevent our escape."

"Which is precisely why we should get aboard that shuttle and use the weapons systems to decimate those droids!" Tarkin persisted.

It was a strange moment for Anakin in that he wasn't sure whose idea was the most reasonable. Take the shuttle first or destroy the turrets first. However, in a split-second, he decided to let that dilemma brew before him, for a more immediate concern caught his attention: airborne speeder platforms approaching from the southwest.

"Whatever we're going to do, we'd better do it fast." He pointed towards the incoming attack.

Hunkered down at the far end of the containers behind which they were hiding, Rex spared only a glance to see what General Skywalker was referring to. Seeing the speeders, he made the instantaneous decision that those would be left to the Jedi to handle. There was more than enough action on the ground to occupy the rest of the team.

"Fives, Echo! Hold this position and keep drawing fire," he ordered. "I'm going to try and get an angle on the controls for that door. If we can shut it, that will slow down their reinforcements."

"Are you sure you don't want us to go with you?" Fives asked.

"I need you to keep their attention focused elsewhere," Rex replied. "All we need is a break in the firing so we can make it to the shuttle."

"What about the turrets, Captain?" Echo asked.

"If we can get to the shuttle, its cannons will be able to take out the turrets quickly," Rex replied, only remotely surprised to hear himself echoing Captain Tarkin's sentiments. He quickly added, "But for now, leave them to General Kenobi and Commander Cody."

"Yes, Sir!"

As their captain dashed off from the cover of the containers to the somewhat more flimsy protection of a row of light stands, Fives, between bursts of fire, inquired of his squad mate, "How many more grenades do we have?"

"Four," Echo replied. "And two droid poppers."

"I'm down to forty percent charge," Fives grunted, referring to the power level of his blaster.

"Not to worry."

Five recognized the hint of self-congratulation in Echo's voice.

"I brought along two spare charge packs."

Ah, that explained it.

"You're always thinking ahead, brother," Fives grinned. "Let's just hope it's enough to get us out of here."

"We just need to do as the captain says," Echo replied with certainty and trust.

Fives never failed to be impressed with Echo's confidence and the fact that his friend had never lost his penchant for being a stickler for rules. And while Echo never deviated from his steadfast embrace of order and regulation, Fives sometimes wondered if a bit of Hevy had somehow found its way into Echo's soul. Hevy had never lacked faith in his own abilities, never backed down from a fight, never accepted the idea that defeat was also a possibility. Echo had taken that certitude and turned it into an optimism that often seemed out-of-place coming from a man whose sole purpose in being created was to fight wars.

"Well, make sure your aim is good when you toss those things," Fives warned. "Everything counts from here on out." As he spoke, the two of them saw General Skywalker leaped into the air and take over one of the speeder platforms. "Show off," Fives quipped.

"You know the general," Echo replied, adding, "But you won't hear me complaining. He can show off as much as he likes."

With that, he stepped out from behind cover long enough to rifle a grenade at the approaching droids.

The detonation sent droid parts flying, drawing Rex's attention.

" _That's the stuff,"_ he said silently, then adding to himself, _"Good decision to bring those two. They're fearless."_ He sprang out from the wall behind which he was hiding, taking advantage of the explosion, and speeding across the twenty meters to his next cover, a buttressing wall less than thirty meters from the door's control panel.

From this distance, he could draw a bead on the control panel; yet, he hesitated. Getting a better look at the controls, he could see they were of a type where there was no guarantee that the door would shut simply because he blasted the panel. He might end up doing more harm than good if he destroyed the controls, locking the door in the open position. Somehow, he had to close the doors first.

And that would mean getting a lot closer; only, there was little in the way of protection between his current cover and the door. Other than a small maintenance cart, the platform was open. Still, it was his only option. He was about to take a run for it when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?!"

He turned to see Ahsoka hunkered down behind him.

"You're heading right for them!" the padawan said, as if her captain had not realized where he was going and the danger that awaited.

"We have to close the door, stop more from coming," Rex replied, sounding much calmer than his companion.

"So, fire already!"

"I need to close the doors first," Rex replied. "If I blast the controls now, the doors may end up stuck in the open position."

With characteristic impatience, Ahsoka lowered her head and stretched out her hands, reaching out with the Force to depress the close button just as a group of commandoes cleared the opening. No sooner was the door down than Rex fired off one precise shot, frying the controls.

"Good shot, Rex," Ahsoka commended him. "Now, let's find some better cover."

* * *

From his cover behind the containers, Fives nodded with appreciative determination. "The captain got the door closed! Let's finish these bastards off!"

Echo leaped out and lobbed another grenade into the midst of the commandoes, taking out half; but among those that had survived the blast, one, instead of advancing, turned and began to leap up towards one of the gun turrets. Lowering his range finder, Echo zoomed in for a better look. What he saw was not promising.

"General Skywalker, the droid is manning one of those turrets," he reported. "They're going to blow up the shuttle, Sir."

On the speeder platform, with General Piell riding behind him, Anakin immediately changed tactics from chasing and shooting down other speeders to attacking the turret. But the droid manning the gun saw his enemy approaching and turned the weapon's firepower against the speeder platform. Anakin managed to get off one shot before his own speeder was shot down and he and Piell leaped from the stricken vehicle an instant before it crashed.

The droid turned the canon towards the two Jedi, chasing them across the platform as they raced for cover.

Behind the containers and now out of grenades and droid poppers, Echo saw an opening as the droid concentrated its attention on Skywalker and Piell. This might be the best chance any of them got to make it to the shuttle and turn its weapons against the turrets and their assailants.

"This is our only chance. We've got to stop him!"

Fives followed his squad mate out from behind their cover, assuming that they would be making a beeline for the next closest form of protection—another stack of conexes. It didn't even surprised him when Echo went a bit wide to pick up one of the fallen commando's shields; it seemed like a good idea.

What Fives had not expected was that Echo would continue running, not towards cover, but towards the shuttle.

Perhaps he should have expected it. He knew what kind of man his squad mate was.

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw the turret moving, rotating towards the shuttle.

"Echo! Look out!"

For a brief moment, as Echo sprang up onto the shuttle's ramp, the thought came into Fives' mind that his friend might actually succeed. It appeared that sometimes courage paid off.

Sometimes.

In a flash of red-orange light, the shuttle blew to pieces, sending schrapnel rocketing in all directions, the force of the explosion knocking everyone flat, stunned and in disbelief.

Fives got to his feet. "Echo!" he shouted, but he knew his cry was in vain. Where the shuttle had stood only seconds earlier—where Echo had stood—now, there was only a scorched platform and flaming pieces of debris.

In that moment, the universe, as Fives knew it, changed forever.


	93. Chapter 91

**_Dear Reader, I am sorry it's been so long since I last posted! Lots of stuff going on! Not to mention, it's been very hard to adapt this arc to paper - the episodes have lots of extended fight scenes, which tend to be (in my opinion) rather boring reading, even though they're exciting on the screen. I took some license with the number of clones and their deaths (it was so inconsistent in the episodes), as well as where people are in certain scenes. And of course, I added my own dialog and lots of internal exposition. I wanted to use this chapter to start to show some of the changes in how the clones view things. We all know that Rex and Fives are two very different people by the time Umbara gets here (and it's coming next) than they were in the beginning. The show gets darker, and so does this story. Thanks for Braveseeker, LLTC, Ms CT-782, the Unnamed Guest, Sued13, Shadow Wanderer, and Phoenix Lordess for taking the time to review the last chapter. Thanks for sticking with me through this very long story and very long pause! Enjoy! CS_**

Chapter 91 The Beginning of Differences

" _Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."_

 _Beyond Good and Evil_  
Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

It was a matter of instinct. And which instinct was the more powerful.

The instinct was to run from an explosion. Even common sense told him that.

It was also instinctual to run to a brother's aid.

But . . . would he be running to aid or running only to look upon the face of a dead man?

The appearance of death didn't always mean the actual occurrence of death.

It was a hope worth holding onto, wasn't it?

 _Wasn't it?_

In the eerie silence that followed the explosion, he heard the sound of Fives crying out in anguish.

"Echo!"

It was that cry that pushed him to action. In what might have been one of the least well-considered decisions of his life, Rex leaped out from behind the cover that he and Ahsoka were still sharing as they made their way back to the rest of the group.

He made it only a few steps before a powerful, unseen hand reached out and yanked him back with the sort of strength he had come to know not to resist.

General Skywalker. Force-propelling him back to cover.

But as he landed awkwardly on the ground beside Commander Tano, and as he looked up to see her glaring down at him, he realized his mistake.

"No, Rex," the commander said emphatically.

It was she who had pulled him back. He hadn't realized she had grown that strong in the Force.

"Commander, I can't just—"

"It's too late, Captain," came the fierce, no-nonsense reply. Gone was the familiarity of first names. Commander Tano meant business. It seemed she had transformed right there before his eyes from the rather headstrong pest who had stolen her way onto this mission into a responsible leader, who—at the moment—was showing more sense than he was.

"Right . . . " he murmured, pushing up into a crouching position; and although he knew the commander was right, he struggled to force down his reluctance to leave.

"General Kenobi's ordered a retreat," Ahsoka informed him. "We need to get out of here."

Rex made a quick scan of their immediate surroundings. The outer wall of the landing platform was less than ten meters away. On the other side of the wall, the ground made a precipitous drop fifty or so meters into the winding labyrinth of lava-carved canyons and tunnels below.

"We can go over the side," Rex stated. "It's a long way down , Commander."

Ahsoka recognized the implication in his voice.

"Not a problem," she replied.

"You're sure about that?" Rex inquired.

"Positive," came the confident reply. "I've come a long way since Point Rain."

"Then you go first. I'll cover you." Rex traded his side arms for a fallen repeat-firing long blaster and without the slightest hesitation, leaned out and began laying down a field of fire to cover Ahsoka's retreat to the wall. Two leaps and she was gone over the side.

Rex waited several seconds.

" _Okay, Commander,"_ he said silently. _"My life is in your hands."_ With that, he broke for the wall and dove over head-first, plummeting into the red-infused darkness beyond the platform, falling like a rock towards the churning lava below. He could see Commander Tano standing on a narrow spinney of rock almost directly below, and he hoped—prayed—that she had grown strong enough in the Force to direct his fall so that he landed on the rock instead of in the lava.

At least this time, he knew what to expect, unlike at Point Rain, when the commander and General Skywalker had just sort of tossed him into the air off the barrier wall with no explanation of what their plan was. In retrospect, it was good that they hadn't told him; he would have objected vociferously. On this occasion, he knew what was happening and why. There'd be no screaming on the way down this time.

His fall was definitely slowing but he was still out over the lava.

Maybe a scream was in order . . .

Then suddenly, he felt an incredible power, a strength much greater than what he'd been feeling. His descent slowed quickly, and he was moved directly over the rock, where he touched down light as a feather.

The sound of General Skywalker's voice told him whose the intervention had been.

"Good job, Ahsoka," Anakin said, but his voice was subdued. Their loss on the landing platform precluded any sense of satisfaction.

Ahsoka, speaking quietly, replied, "I had him, Master. You didn't need to help me."

Anakin put a hand on her shoulder. "I know that. I helped because I wanted to." He looked back up to the top of the cliff. "They'll be coming soon. We need to get moving."

"What's the plan now?" Captain Tarkin asked. "If that was Plan B, is there now a Plan C Or perhaps there's a plan D?"

It was Obi-wan who overlooked the sarcasm and replied, "I've already called for an extraction."

"Well, this certainly hasn't been a very impressive operation, has it?" the captain stated, yet his voice did not lend itself to straight criticism. There was something almost . . . humorous in his observation, as if he were finding the whole comedy of errors quite entertaining. It was strange, coming from a man so ready with his reproaches.

"It's not over yet," Anakin pointed out. "Let's get moving. We've got less than two hours to get to the extraction point."

As they began moving out, Anakin pulled up beside his captain. "You okay, Rex?" he asked in a low voice.

Rex nodded slightly.

"It's a tough loss," Anakin went on. "Echo was one of the best. Not just as a soldier, but as a man."

"Yes, Sir," Rex agreed. "I . . . expected him to die doing something like that." A pause. "Just not so soon."

Anakin placed his hand on Rex's shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "He almost made it."

"Almost." Rex sighed heavily. "I'd better make sure Fives is okay. I don't know how this is going to affect him." And he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

As the group entered the maze of lava tunnels and canyons, keeping a constant check behind them to make sure they were not being followed, Rex kept an eye on Fives, waiting for an opportunity to talk to him. At length, he moved next to him.

"Fives, take over the rear from Bounce. I have a feeling the enemy isn't too far behind," Rex ordered.

"Yes, Captain."

"And Fives . . . I'm sorry about Echo," he added, reaching out and placing his hand on Five's pauldroned shoulder.

Perhaps not surprisingly, Fives stepped away from the gesture of comfort. "Please Captain . . . not now. I can't."

Despite the tight control in Fives' voice, Rex heard the grief and turmoil beneath. He could fully comprehend Fives' desire not to even think of what had just happened—not at this moment, at least—and he nodded his understanding.

Twenty minutes later, as they passed through a honeycomb of irregular basalt columns and pools of superheated water that wafted ghostly coils of steam, General Kenobi paused for the group to take a rest and collect their wits. Cody sent Bounce and Fives to stand watch, as there were still speeder-borne patrols canvassing the area from above.

"We have to hold out until the council sends a ship," Obi-wan stated.

General Piell spoke with certainty. "Not a problem. We beat them once; we can beat them again."

From where he stood watch near the top of a steep embankment, Fives heard this glib and, in his opinion, arbitrary assessment of their success, and he felt his spine stiffen. So far, they had lost four troopers on this debacle of a mission. He wasn't exactly sure how that qualified as "beating" them. Now, they were hiding out in the shadows, hoping that the rescue ship would get to them before the enemy did. Damn it, the place was designed to prevent Jedi from escaping. They had among them right now three Jedi and one padawan; yet they were cowering in the recesses and dark crevices of this place.

And now Echo was gone . . .

"This landscape is almost impossible to cross." He'd spoken before he'd even realized it. "How are we going to get to the rendez-vous point?"

Rex sighed. This was what he had feared. There was no mistaking the defeatist tone in Fives' voice. And Rex knew this was only the first indication of what was to come.

Rex had not always been the most astute reader of character and emotion; but he'd always gotten by on the fact that he himself was honest and genuine, and so he could be given a pass for the failure to sense someone's emotions or judge their character correctly. But as far as Echo and Fives were concerned, that was a bond he'd understood from his earliest moments of observation.

Of the pair, it had been Echo, undisputedly and irrefutably, who had kept the optimistic, positive vibe in the relationship. Echo had been the type who never gave in, never gave up, and never said die. His idiosyncrasies aside, Echo had been a generous, thoughtful, and conscientious brother; a brilliant and courageous soldier; and one of the most decent beings—human or otherwise—Rex had never known.

Fives, on the other hand, had always tended towards the skeptical, pessimistic, even suspicious viewpoint. He'd come a long way since the early days of his membership in the 501st, but he'd never stopped depending on Echo to keep him afloat. He was a tremendous and talented soldier in his own right; but his somewhat melancholy mindset and dark sense of humor had never been fully supplanted by his friend's more buoyant and wide-eyed nature.

Without Echo to counterbalance the heaviness that always seemed ready to settle onto Fives' shoulders, Rex feared the pessimism would rear its head.

As it was doing now.

"That is the trap of the Citadel," Obi-wan replied. "It was designed so it would be almost impossible for fugitives to get off the surface, even if they escape the tower."

Anakin spoke boldly. "Lucky we're not just any fugitives." With that, he got them moving again.

Rex took point, and shortly, he found Ahsoka moving with him.

"How's Fives taking it?" she asked quietly.

"I'm just trying to keep him focused on the mission," Rex replied. "I need him to keep himself together until we're out of here. Losing it now could cost him—and the rest of us—our lives." A pause. "I don't think he'll let his guard down until this is over. But I know he's hurting. And I know it's bad."

Ahsoka frowned. "I noticed . . . he was kind of the old Fives back there: doubtful and pessimistic, you know?"

"I know."

"Echo was the most important person in the universe to him," Ahsoka went on. "He's never going to be the same."

Rex had nothing to say to that, so he chose a tangent. "By the way, thank you for pulling me back up on the platform."

Ahsoka was somewhat surprised by this expression of gratitude. It was not what she had expected. "You're not angry?"

"No," Rex answered. "You were right. He—he was probably already dead, and . . . it was a mistake for me to try running out there. It was a gut reaction."

"I think that's why your men feel so strongly about you, Captain," Ahsoka opined. "Your first thought is always for them."

Rex glanced sidelong at her and wondered when in the past few months she had changed from a sticky-hearted teenager into a young woman with the self-control to express her thoughts without giving into the overthrows of emotion. He did not fool himself into thinking that she had suddenly become a responsible adult; stealing onto this mission was proof enough against that, but she no longer seemed to be the doe-eyed girl who had not managed at all to conceal her infatuation with him. Rather, the affection and attraction were more subtle and muted, though not in the least diminished.

"But I couldn't do anything this time," Rex sighed. "I didn't even know he was going until it was too late. I couldn't stop him."

Ahsoka wished she could see beneath the helmet. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah," Rex replied in a wan voice. "He's . . . not the first soldier I've lost."

"No, but he meant a lot to you," Ahsoka pointed out.

"I met him fresh out of Basic on his first assignment. I brought him into the 501st," Rex said. "I made him an ARC trooper. Yeah, he meant a lot . . . but there are many brothers who mean a lot to me. I wish I could save them all." With that, he quickened his pace, ending the discussion.

Ahsoka grimaced. It might be lost on the others, but it was not lost on her: that while the concern was for Fives and how Echo's loss would affect him, yet she could not overlook Rex and what Echo's death meant to him. Echo had quickly become one of Rex's most dependable and relied upon troopers. Their relationship had grown very close, and it was not a given that Rex would soon move on from the tragedy.

Only time would tell.

* * *

"We've got a whole platoon of droids coming up behind us," Fives reported. "Including commandoes. They followed us from inside the caves."

"We need to quicken the pace," Anakin urged. "Everyone, get moving!"

Master Piell held back. "Ahsoka and I will bring up the rear and hold them off in case those metal bastards get too close."

Anakin gave a curt nod.

The trot at which they'd been moving turned into a full run.

Cody, following behind Rex, was splitting his attention between watching for pursuit or ambushes and ensuring the injured men from Piell and Tarkin's command were not left behind. And perhaps it shouldn't have irked him the way it did, but neither superior officer seemed to give even the least whit of concern for the men. It was falling to him and Bounce to keep the injured from falling behind, and the only way to do that was to inform Generals Kenobi and Skywalker that the pace was too fast.

To their combined credit, both Obi-wan and Anakin willingly sacrificed speed, risking their own lives, to allow the injured to keep up and reminding Cody why he should feel incredibly fortunate to have such men as his commanding generals.

But Cody had more on his mind than just the injured men he was assisting. The other focus of his attention was split between Fives and Rex. The commander had noticed back in the caves the cool distance already starting to envelop Fives. During a brief moment of pursuit back in the caves, Fives had tossed a grenade into a group of encroaching commando droids, only getting himself out of harm's way by taking a flying leap across a bubbling lava pit. The explosion set the droids back, but it was Fives' reaction on the other end that concerned Cody.

Rex had offered him a hand up from his front-first dive. Fives had accepted, but then came a peculiar manner of acknowledgment, a curt nod of the head that had seemed particularly distant and unfamiliar coming from Fives. Fives had practically worshipped the very ground that Rex walked on, so to see him offer what appeared to be almost dismissive thanks . . .

" _Don't read too much into it,"_ Cody told himself. _"He's hurting right now, but he's holding it together. The main thing for all of us to get out of here. He's probably trying to keep his distance so he doesn't lose it."_

At least, that was what he was hoping for.

Now, Rex, on the other hand . . . while Cody was sure the loss was sitting heavy on him, he also knew Rex was professional enough to be able to keep his mind squarely on the mission.

It was what would happen after the mission that concerned Cody – given, of course, that they survived, which was by no means certain.

Since first meeting Rex in ARC training, Cody had noticed the changes in his friend – the most significant of which had already started to take place while they were still in training. It was not hard for Cody to recall the eager ball of energy that had been Rex upon their first meeting in the room that they would share for six weeks. A man who wore his emotions on his armored sleeve, boldly displayed for everyone to see and marvel at. A man who'd had no qualms about growing attached to his brothers and showing it.

There had been something so honest, so artless about Rex that Cody should have known it could never survive the contrived rigors of ARC training. Of course, Rex had excelled in the program and graduated only second to himself; but the part of Rex that had laid his soul out for everyone to see . . . that part no longer existed. Or perhaps it did, but it was no longer allowed to play on the surface. The events of the final test—the Escape and Evasion scenario—of ARC training had changed Rex in many ways, the most prevalent of which was the generation of a guardedness, an unwillingness to show weakness of any kind. And such a stalwart demeanor could only be achieved by the forceful suppression of any affection or connection he felt with his men. Cody had no doubt that Rex felt deeply, that he was irrevocably and wholeheartedly devoted to the men who served under him – not to mention, the Jedi under whom he served; but he would not admit to those emotions. Even the most casual observer could discern them in him; yet, he would not acknowledge such emotions to himself. It was as if the physical punishments he'd suffered in E&E had somehow opened him up like a man on an operating table, revealing all his weaknesses and push points. He would never allow those weaknesses to be so readily accessed again. He would demonstrate his devotion and loyalty through his actions and his words. But his emotions were off-limits. And he would allow his men only as close as he comfortable with . . .

As if he could pull off such a thing.

Cody had never seen a man so connected to his troops and vice versa, despite Rex's best efforts to keep a distance.

It was that connection that worried the commander now. Rex had taken a lot of personal responsibility for both Fives and Echo.

Now, Echo was dead.

His thoughts were interrupted as the group pulled up sharply in front of him.

They had come to a sheer drop-off of at least one hundred-fifty meters; and now the enemy was approaching from all asides.

"They're boxing us in!" Ahsoka said.

Anakin, without hesitation, ordered, "Lock in your cables." A pause. "Artoo, we need your droids to hold off the enemy as long as possible. Everybody, follow me!" He motioned for Captain Tarkin to climb onto his back and then he was over the edge in a face-first posture, using the cable to shimmy down the cliff side.

"This is madness!" Tarkin blurted out, but he held on, deciding that he stood a better chance of survival on the back of a Jedi than he did remaining on the cliff above.

It was a tricky descent, but no more difficult than anything else they'd done thus far on this forsaken mission; and Cody was truly hoping it wouldn't all come to naught. He wasn't given to pessimism, but this mission hadn't exactly gone accordingly to plan at any step along the way.

Making it to the ground below, the group made their way down into the tunnels below the surface and continued on, safe for the moment but with no illusion that the enemy was about to give up the pursuit.

Cody followed behind Ahsoka with Rex directly behind him as they wended their way through the passageways of a bizarre and threatening subscape.

"I think we've managed to lose them in these tunnels," Ahsoka noted. "It's been almost an hour and we haven't seen any pursuers."

"I wouldn't get too comfortable with that idea, Ahsoka," Obi-wan warned. "Sobeck specializes in tracking. It's why they put him in charge of this place. He won't give up, and there's an almost one hundred percent chance we'll see him or his forces again before we're rescued."

"How much further to the rendez-vous?" Ahsoka inquired.

"It's hard to say," Obi-wan replied. "On a straight line, I'd say no more than two clicks. But we have to follow the lines of these tunnels."

"Are we sure these tunnels will lead us there?" Ahsoka asked. "I know we only had old, outdated data on the Citadel. What if we can't get there through these tunnels."

"Then we'll find another way," came the assured reply.

From near the back of the gaggle, Tarkin's voice rose in a challenging, rather skeptical tone. "What if your Jedi friends are not there when we arrive?"

"Keep moving and you won't have to worry about that, Tarkin," General Piell replied in an equally disdainful voice, bordering on hatred.

Walking between the two men, Cody congratulated himself on his ability to simply let things roll over him – things like the petty squabbles between senior officers, even Jedi. He could have dwelt on the absurdity of Piell's statement, for it might very well be that all of them would _keep moving_ only to discover that the planned rescue had not materialized, in which case they would all have to _worry about that_. Or he could have wondered why Captain Tarkin insisted on using cynicism and doubt to stoke less than charitable feelings between him and his general. Of course, that seemed to be Tarkin's way with everyone. The man clearly had a sense of his own superiority which fostered doubt in his own mind that anyone else could possibly have worthy ideas or plans. Either way, both men were annoying as hell.

Behind Cody, Rex's thoughts were much different and tainted by his previous run-in with General Piell back on the very first day of him taking his position as first-in-command of the 501st. He'd found himself quietly rooting for Captain Tarkin to come back with some snappy, insulting rejoinder to Piell's comment; though, for his own part, Rex wasn't particularly fond of the captain either. Still, based on his earlier observances, he'd noted the slight thaw in the frigid relationship between his own general and the captain. And if General Skywalker was satisfied to tolerate Tarkin's supercilious manner, then Rex had no reason not to follow suit.

Ahsoka, on the other hand, felt no compulsion to take her master's lead. She sidled up to Anakin and in a quiet voice, asked, "Why did Master Piell have to share half the intel with that guy? It's like he's not even grateful we rescued him."

Anakin was circumspect in his answer. "Captain Tarkin feels the Jedi should be . . . relieved from their burden of leading the war effort," he said, as the group emerged from the tunnels into the canyons.

"That's ridiculous," Ahsoka scoffed.

"Maybe," Anakin conceded. "But we aren't soldiers. We're peacekeepers." A pause. "The Jedi Code often prevents us from going far enough to achieve victory."

Overhearing the conversation, Obi-wan put forth, "A rather simple point of view."

Anakin would not allow the conversation to stray too far, and when he spoke, it was with conviction. "Either way, he _is_ a good captain."

Ahsoka was about to protest when a fearful howl echoed around them. "Did you hear that?"

It was Piell who replied. "Yes. We're going to have company."

"That's a quaint way of putting it," Tarkin sniffed. "It sounds more like we're going to be torn to pieces by wild animals."

"Those aren't wild animals, captain," Piell sneered. "Those are the Anubis. I've seen them in action. They're trained for tracking. But you're right about one thing . . . " He gave a macabre grin. "They _can_ tear you to pieces."

Tarkin took on his best caustic slant. "I suppose you Jedi have no need to fear them. You can just wave them away with the Force or cut them down with your light sabers. The rest of us might not be so fortunate."

"We're here to protect the group, Captain," Obi-wan pointed out. "Not just ourselves."

"That makes me feel so much better," Tarkin said flippantly. "From the way things were going, I was starting to wonder if any of us would get out of this alive." He affected a mockingly pious attitude and posture. "Although my own general would never hesitate to sacrifice his life for those of his men."

Piell was not going to let the swipe go unanswered. "Not all men are worth the sacrifice." He quickened his pace and moved ahead, effectively ending the conversation.

Some seconds later, Anakin drew up beside Tarkin. "You know . . . it's not wise to argue with Master Piell," he warned, feeling magnanimous in offering such sage advice. "It's certainly not a good career move."

But Tarkin's reply quickly dispelled any idea that the captain had been bothered by Piell's words or that he needed the benefit of Anakin's wisdom.

"General Skywalker," he began in a haughty voice, "I stand by my principles no matter what. Besides, you needn't worry about my career. I've fallen into favor with the chancellor. He shall support me."

"Oh? I happen to know the chancellor quite well myself," Anakin replied.

This seemed to surprise the captain, and he inquired with doubt in his voice, "Really?"

Anakin faced him squarely and spoke firmly. "Really."

Obi-wan, not liking the conversation he was hearing behind him, raised his voice. "Let's keep moving. If we're not at the rendez-vous at the exact time, we'll miss our window."

Another ear-splitting cry pierced the eerie silence.

"Those creatures are gaining," Fives observed.

"If they've caught our scent, they'll lead the droids right to us," Piell stated.

"We're going to have to deal with them," Anakin grimaced.

"What about using this cave to surprise them? Ahsoka suggested.

Piell picked up on the idea. "If we can get them to pass by, we can attack them from behind; but we need a distraction."

"Leave that to me," Anakin volunteered, then at a cue from Obi-wan, he added, "And Obi-wan, of course."

"Okay," Piell agreed. "The rest of you, follow me."

* * *

The dog-like Anubis were master-trackers. And they were fast. But in their haste to find their quarry, they completely ignored the divergence of the scent, choosing instead to continue full-on in the straightest route. Detouring into a cave to check out a tangential scent trail was not something that processed through their limited intelligence.

And their single-minded focus paid off when two figures came into view.

Two figures with glowing lights in their hands.

But the glowing lights meant nothing to the Anubis. To them, Jedi were unknown. There was only prey, only the pursuit. They did not differentiate between types. They cared only for the capture.

Anakin and Obi-wan—the distractions—both turned as the creatures bore down on them.

For all the death he had delivered thus far in his life, there were times when Anakin hated killing. The destruction of dumb animals was one of those times. These creatures had been trained to carry out a function. Morality played no role in their actions. They did as they were trained; and when they were successful, they were rewarded. There was no animus, no hatred in what they did.

Yet, they would kill him if they could. Violence had to be met with violence. It might not be the Jedi way, but it was the way of war.

And following close on their heels came droids on speeder platforms.

Destroying droids . . . that was another matter, and one which Anakin was more than happy to oblige.

But what neither Anakin nor Obi-wan knew was that while they were fighting the Anubis and a small contingent of droids, a larger squad of crab droids had followed the Anubis at a greater distance and was now in the process of moving in to cut off General Piell and his group as they emerged from the cave. The idea of surprising the Anubis with a rear attack seemed to be off the table.

Or perhaps not entirely. General Piell turned to Commander Cody. "Keep going. Ahsoka and I will take care of the droids."

Cody and the rest of the group raced on ahead just in time to add their firepower against the platform-borne droids.

Rex, unleashing his double pistols, began firing; but out of the corner of his eye, he could see his general performing a series of backflips in order to avoid the barrage from the speeder platforms. The acrobatics might not be necessary, but they were the general's style; and Rex had come to expect such displays. He liked to think that he could stand toe-to-toe with his commanding officer through his own show of expert marksmanship. And under the circumstances, this would be more than a mere show; lives might depend on his ability to hit a target.

He didn't bother to use his targeting aid or his helmet's headsup display. He trusted to his own visual acuity and timing and was rewarded with a direct hit to one of the platforms, which went spinning and careening out of control . . .

. . . directly towards General Skywalker.

Rex needn't have worried, though, for Anakin had seen the platform hurtling towards him and taken a knee as the platform flew overhead and crashed behind him. Rex saw the look in his general's eye – a look that said, _Good job, but not so close, next time._ It was the sort of approval Rex lived for; a sign of approbation from the man he admired most.

He came to a conclusion at that moment, a thought entering his head that had never been there before. That even if they were to die here on this planet, awaiting rescue; to die with General Skywalker would be the way to go.

The only way.

There was no Jedi who fought harder for his men. No Jedi who took more chances. No Jedi who made those in his charge feel as if anything and everything were possible. No battle so fearsome that the terror could not be lessened under General Skywalker's leadership. No situation so hopeless that a ray of hope could not be gleaned from General Skywalker's mere presence.

Being in Master Piell's presence again had brought home to Rex just how fortunate he'd been in his assignment to the 501st and General Skywalker. And having General Kenobi rarely more than a stone's throw away was an added boon; for not only was Kenobi a brilliant man, but the contrast with General Skywalker in terms of leadership and combat styles accentuated the differences between the two and brought into close relief the reasons why Rex was so well-suited to Anakin, just as Cody was well-suited to Obi-wan.

Had Rex believed in blessings, he would have considered himself to be the abundant recipient thereof.

General Skywalker approached and put a hand on his shoulder. "Were you trying to take my head off?"

"Just trying to protect you, Sir," Rex replied. "Lucky shot. Unlucky crash trajectory."

Anakin smiled. In the shadow of their losses—in the shadow of Echo's death—the momentary show of levity and gratitude felt good. Fleeting, but good.

"So much for the hunting party," Cody said.

"There are more squads on their way," Captain Tarkin stated with certainty. "We shouldn't hang about."

Suddenly, Obi-wan's voice drew everyone's attention. "Oh, no."

All eyes followed his gaze.

Ahsoka was emerging from the swirling mist. In her arms, she carried General Piell. Anakin stepped forward and helped her lay him on the ground.

He was dead.

It seemed unbelievable. Master Piell was too ornery to die, too stubborn to succumb to death.

But it was true. Definitive.

"He died honorably," Ahsoka said softly. "One of the Anubis . . . "

Anakin pushed his emotions aside. "What about the information?"

"I have it," Ahsoka replied. "He told me just before he died."

The silence that followed was, in many ways, peculiar but not surprising. The man they had come to rescue was dead, but all was not lost. The mission lived in that he had given Ahsoka the vital information and a chance to still claim success. It was perhaps Captain Tarkin's reaction that was the strangest of all, for there was no reaction. He appeared neither grieved nor distraught. Not even moved. Indifference might have best described the manner in which he stood to one side, looking dispassionately at the face of the dead Jedi, his commanding general.

After nearly a minute, Anakin spoke up, "We can't stay here. We have to get to the rendez-vous. Our window's almost here."

Ahsoka raised her head, eyes wide and round and filled with sadness. "We can't just leave him here."

Anakin's reply was direct and plain. "We've left a lot of men where they fell."

Here, Obi-wan stepped in. "We should commit his soul of the Force and his body to the earth."

At these words, Rex could almost sense a tenseness clamp down on Fives, who was standing several meters away, keeping a watchful eye out for more pursuers. He was not hardpressed to wonder at the reaction. They'd taken not even a second to mourn or honor any of the other men—all clones—who had fallen on this mission. Maybe the circumstances hadn't allowed it . . . but did their current circumstances indicate any better?

As Obi-wan wrapped Master Piell's body in a micro-blanket taken from Bounce's pack, Rex moved over towards Fives as discreetly as possible; but Fives, sensing the reason behind his captain's approach, waylayed him.

"I'm going to check our six," he said. "Someone has to."

"Fives—"

"It's good, Captain," Fives cut him off. "I want to do it."

Rex sighed and watched him take a dozen or so steps away to scan the surroundings for signs of more pursuit.

"I can't blame him."

Rex turned to see Cody now standing beside him.

"No . . . neither can I," Rex agreed.

* * *

"We don't have much time," Obi-wan began. "Let's take this moment to honor him. Then we must move on. He would have wanted us to complete our mission."

Rex wasn't really sure how to honor the man. Given his brief history with the man prior to this mission—all of maybe ten minutes, if that—and the negative feelings that time had engendered, doubtless in both of them, Rex could do little more than lament the loss of fighting prowess. If there were more to General Piell than what Rex had known, others could mourn the loss of those more admirable characteristics; for while Rex was not a man who harbored grudges, he also was not a man who simply brushed by the wrongs of the past with the plastic mask of tolerance and acceptance when he felt neither.

He'd never told General the entire truth of that brief encounter with General Piell. Events of this day might be the opening he'd been waiting for. Except that he hadn't been waiting for an opening. He'd never intended to tell General Skywalker the full details of what had happened. It wasn't the kind of thing a serious officer did – running to his commanding general with a litany of excuses for why he'd acted the way he had or done the things he'd done. There was no need to unburden the soul; and with General Skywalker, Rex had felt as if he'd come out more than even as far as commanding officers are concerned. No need to complain. No need to impart details best put to rest.

And now that Master Piell had died, there was no reason why General Skywalker should ever know the truth of the precipitating events of that day. After all, the circumstances had helped Rex make a first impression that had ultimately convinced his new general that here was an officer unlike any other. What could have easily backfired ended up working to Rex's advantage.

For that, he had Master Piell to thank.

And so that was what he did in the silence of his thoughts.

" _I'm still not sorry—to this day, I'm still not sorry for what I did. But I can at least say you set me off on a good foot with General Skywalker. I'm grateful for that."_

He watched as Generals Kenobi and Skywalker used the Force to lower their friend's body into the river of lava below.

And then the time for grieving and honor was over.

Time was of the essence.


	94. Chapter 92

_**Dear Reader, Sorry it's been so long! I have been planning a HUGE trip (the whole month in July) to Europe, and I am the tour leader. I've just been so busy taking care of that and also my work, that I've not had much chance to post. But here is the latest installment. You will notice that I changed the ending of the Citadel Arc. Instead of having it take place on Coruscant's landing platform, it takes place aboard the Resolute. I needed to change it to accommodate certain scenes that I wanted to take place. I hope it doesn't cause any heartburn. Enjoy! CS**_

Chapter 92 Brokens

" _Das Feuer brannt im kamin. (The fire blazed in the hearth)  
Der General befahl ihm mut. (The general told him, "Have courage!")  
Doch seine tat war onhe Sinn. (But his sacrifice was without meaning.)  
Und Er verbrannte in der Glut. (And he burned in the glow.)_

 _Er war nur ein Spielzeug. (He was only a play thing.)  
Er war nu rein Zinnsoldat."( He was only a tin soldier.)_

 _Zinnsoldat  
Michael Cretu_

* * *

 _The extraction point._

 _There it was. At last._

 _A jutting island of rock surrounded by a moat of roiling lava. Not the easiest place to get to. But for this group, not a problem._

 _Cody was already sprinting forward, taking aim and firing his cable to create an anchor on the other side. General Skywalker did the same._

 _Rex didn't hesitate. He was always first. He began a belly slide along the cable, feeling the searing heat coming up from the churn below. He didn't want to lose his grip on this one; although, to own the truth, he trusted General Skywalker would Force-catch him and shuttle him to safety if he were to get sloppy. But this was the sort of thing clones practiced. They were good at it._

 _The view in his headsup showed Captain Tarkin on the second cable. He wasn't so sure the same was true of non-clone officers with regard to such training. Still, the captain seemed to be making his way steadily, not far behind._

 _Rex came to the far end, happy to be on solid ground once again. He leaned down and gave Tarkin a hand up the escarpment. That was when he saw them._

" _Incoming!"_

 _Half a dozen speeder platforms. And damned if the lead wasn't Sobeck himself._

 _The shooting started. Light sabers flared._

 _But it was Fives' shot that tumbled Sobeck from his speeder. A fitting retribution of sorts._

 _The chaos continued. Both Generals Skywalker and Kenobi had commandeered speeders, and everywhere blaster bolts filled the partially enclosed cavern with streaks of red and blue light._

 _It looked like Captain Tarkin might be the one to actually kill Sobeck . . . he had his weapon raised . . ._

 _A pinpoint shot through Sobeck's chest. But not from Tarkin._

 _Rex followed the line of the shot up to a ledge several meters above the lava moat. He could not believe his eyes; and yet the joy, the relief was too palpable for doubt._

" _Echo!" He cried out._

 _The figure on the ledge did not move or respond. But clearly it was Echo. The handprint in Rishi Eel blood adorned his chest plate. The tribute to Hevy was emblazoned on the armor. Why, he hadn't been killed at all! He wasn't even hurt! He looked perfectly fine. Perfectly intact. So, why wasn't he speaking? Why didn't he even give a wave or nod of acknowledgment? Did he not hear his captain calling out to him?_

 _Rex suddenly became aware of the silence. There was no sound at all. People were still moving around him. Shots were still being fired. Speeders still buzzed along like overgrown flies. The lava was still flowing. But everything had slowed down, morphed into some bizarre time warp._

 _This . . . this wasn't how it had happened._

 _No . . . it was Tarkin who had shot Sobeck but only injured him. It was Ahsoka—Commander Tano—who had delivered the death blow with her light saber._

 _Echo was no part of these final moments on the Citadel. He was—his remains were back on the landing platform . . ._

 _Fek and all, I'm going crazy . . ._

 _The Echo that wasn't now spoke. The voice was a whisper and yet it was as clear as the chimes of the Furnnem Holy Houses._

" _Why did you leave me behind?"_

Rex drew in a sharp breath and sat up.

He was in his bed aboard the Resolute. But he already knew that. It's where he had been for the past four hours, trying to get some sleep before a debriefing that was scheduled to take place in two hours.

He'd managed to fall asleep several times, but each time, the quality of his slumber was much like this last one. Fitfull, shallow, or filled with distorted images of the horror of the Citadel rescue. The horror of a loss he had not expected. The ruminations of a troubled mind that ceased to let go of events.

Rex decided it was pointless to try going back to sleep. If he were going to be assailed by memories, he would do so wide awake, where he had more control over his perceptions and was not at the mercy of dreams that made the past seem present once more.

He got dressed and decided to make some rounds through the ship. That would help redirect his thoughts. And it did, but not in the way he would have liked. Recollections of events were instead supplanted by bitter musings over whether or not his own reactions were sound. The standard canard that clones were bred to withstand almost any kind of mental stress played along like a recording in the back of his mind; yet there was a difference between feeling stress and cracking under it. Rex was convinced that he and his brothers felt the pain of loss with an anguish and sorrow equal to that of their non-clone companions. It wasn't that clones didn't experience the range or intensity of emotion; it was that they were, theoretically, better able to compartmentalize the events, thus clearing the way for them to move ahead unhindered by the messy past or fear of the uncertain future.

Rex absolutely believed this was true, and he was proud of the fact that he and his brothers could witness the most gruesome and atrocious events, mourn the death and destruction, and then push on with a certain detachment that any fighting man would envy.

Rex, himself, had done just that more times than he could remember. Being in the midst of frequent death was part of being a clone. Rex had mastered sequestering virtually every form of death and injury, and that made him an even stronger first-in-command than most. He never shrank, never looked back, never second-guessed himself.

Until now.

For the first time since ARC training, he wondered if he might have made a mistake. Multiple mistakes.

And he could not stop the replay of the exploding shuttle, of Echo's body—what was left of it—on the platform, and now . . . the accusation of his dream. _"Why did you leave me behind?"_

"Because you were already dead," he said under his breath. "There was nothing I could do for you. Believe me, if I'd thought for a second . . . "

The same thoughts went round and round inside his head until the next thing he knew, it was five minutes before the debriefing was to begin; and as if by instinct, he found himself standing in front of the conference room.

Stepping inside, he saw Cody already seated beside Bounce against the back wall on the far side of the room. He went to join him.

Cody watched as Rex crossed the room to join him, and he didn't like what he saw. The vigor and alertness that usually marked Rex's presence were completely absent. In fact, he looked tired and forlorn. And while this did not wholly surprise Cody after the events of the Citadel, it did concern him.

"Rex, you look like you haven't slept a wink since we got back," he remarked.

"Maybe a wink," Rex replied. "And even that was . . . not what I would call restful." A pause. "I can't stop thinking about it." He was not looking at Cody as he spoke, and that gave him courage to elaborate. "We lost good men on this mission. And . . . it was all for nothing."

"The mission was a success," Cody pointed out. "The goal was to get the coordinates for the Nexus route. We did that."

Rex leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. "Dodger was in the battalion before I even came onboard. He was steady. He had a good sense of humor. The men liked him. He lived longer than most clones once they step foot on the battlefield. I never thought he'd die doing something like this . . . it was just a bad step, a slip. I always imagined he'd meet his end under a barrage of enemy fire . . . that he'd sacrifice his life for the sake of a shinie. That's the kind of death he deserved."

Cody let him stew in his own words for a few seconds. "And Echo? What kind of death did he deserve?"

Rex's jaw tightened. "He didn't deserve any kind of death. He shouldn't have died." He sounded very close to angry. "He shouldn't have run out there. He had to know that he didn't stand a chance." He tensed, and then his breath trailed out of him in a long, slow sigh. "Why Echo? Why did it have to be him?"

"Are you surprised?" Cody asked in his usual calm, thoughtful manner. "That's the kind of man he was."

"I know, but . . . I feel . . . more responsible for him. I brought him into the 501st. I made him an ARC trooper. I've put him on the most dangerous missions. Maybe I expected too much." Rex laced his fingers together. "Echo was one of the best men I've ever known – not just as a soldier, but as a person. I just . . . should have done more."

Cody was very quiet. "What more could you have done?"

"I could have gone out to him," Rex replied. "I could have checked to—to—make sure . . ."

"Rex—"

"I started to, but Commander Tano pulled me back," Rex went on. "I know she did the right thing. I mean, I saw him—what—what was left of him—on the platform. It was an instinct to run towards him." A pause. "It was a stupid thing to do."

"Yes, it was," Cody agreed. "You would have been gunned down. And that would truly have made Echo's death pointless."

"It's pointless, anyway."

"Echo died trying to save the rest of us," Cody countered. "That's got to count for something. If nothing else, you won't forget that kind of selfless act. It'll make you a better man."

"I thought I was already the best," Rex replied, not in a joking manner but almost in a self-accusatory way.

"In a lot of areas," Cody said. "Others still require some work." He let a few moments of silence go by before broaching the next subject. "There is one thing that remains to be seen." When Rex looked askance at him, he went on. "How Echo's loss is going to affect Fives."

Rex grimaced. That very thought had crossed his mind, as well.

"That's hard to say," he replied. "Echo was the balance to Fives. He kept him level, kept him from getting too deep inside his own head."

"You mean, like you're doing now?" Cody asked with just enough lightness to keep Rex from taking offense. "You're dwelling on this."

"Yeah . . . "

"You can't save them all, Rex. Not even the Jedi can do that. Not even General Skywalker."

"I know that," Rex replied with gravity. "But I at least have to try to save the ones I can."

"You couldn't save Echo. It was already too late."

Rex turned and regarded his friend with an expression that bespoke the understanding between them, the understanding that either could confide in the other with the confidence that their impartings would not be shared.

"You don't have to worry about saving someone if you can prevent them from being in danger in the first place."

Cody was somewhat bemused by this odd answer. "That may be true, but it plays no part in our lives. We were created to go into danger. How would you ever hope to prevent it?"

"By ending the war."

Cody hesitated a moment before answering, "We don't hold those keys."

At that moment, Fives entered the room. He did not greet his first-in-command. He did not greet Commander Cody. Instead, he walked to a chair several seats over and sat down without speaking and keeping his eyes averted.

Not a good sign.

Generals Kenobi and Skywalker entered the briefing room just as the holo-technician pulled up Generals Yoda and Windu. Commander Tano entered with her master and took a seat beside Rex. Captain Tarkin entered last and stood beside General Skywalker – an action which did not go unnoticed by Rex. Or Ahsoka.

General Windu began the briefing with an expression of condolence. "Let me start by saying how much we all feel the tragic loss of General Piell. He was an honorable Jedi and a great leader."

Rex might not have wanted to be ungrateful, but he still could not see Piell as honorable or great, and certainly not a leader. But it made the captain feel small to think such unsolicitous things, and so he forced himself to focus on the rest of Windu's speech.

"He did everything he could to protect the coordinates to the Nexus Route, and because of his ability to resist the enemy, those coordinates are safe and in the hands of the Republic," Windu went on. "He will be missed. May he become one with the Force."

From there, the briefing proceeded per usual. Every aspect of the operation was addressed and dissected. And from Rex's perspective, it was not a pretty evaluation of events.

"The plan was sound," Obi-wan stated at one point. "What we were not expecting was that we would have more than one rescue. We thought we only had to find and extract Master Piell. When we found out that he had given half the information to Captain Tarkin, we had a second rescue to undertake. That did throw things into chaos."

"It didn't help that we had only old, archived schematics to go from," Anakin put forth. "Sobeck had upgraded and replace a lot of systems. The place was monitored almost from top to bottom."

For nearly four hours, the mission was looked at from every possible angle.

Finally, General Windu began to wind things up. "Any alibis? Is there anything anyone wants to add?"

It was then that Fives, who had sat stone-faced and speechless during the entire briefing, stood up. "I have something I want to say."

Rex's muscles tensed involuntarily.

"I mourned General Piell's death, as well," Fives began in a tightly controlled voice. "For the two minutes we had before Sobeck's droids were all over us again . . . I mourned him. But he wasn't the only one who died down there." The muscle in jaw was visibly trembling from the exertion of holding himself together. "My brothers died. My last remaining squad mate died. My closest friend." A pause. "So, I'm going to be blunt about my thoughts on this mission. It wasn't worth it. It was ill-conceived and poorly reconned. And the Nexus route will only be useful until the Separatists figure it out, and then we have to find another way to get our supplies from point A to point B." He spared a glance at his captain, then his general. "I'd fight to death to defend the Republic. But . . . I'd at least like to know that the gain is worth the cost."

With that he took a seat.

An awkward silence ensued during which Rex allowed his gaze to drift towards General Skywalker. And there, he saw everything he needed to settle his own mind.

Without saying a word, without even the tilt of his head, General Skywalker somehow managed to convey that he was on Fives' side. He was on the side of his troops, his clones, his soldiers. He was the true leader that every general should be. He was the Jedi who shared common cause with his men and would go to the ends of the galaxy to fight alongside them. And if need be, he would die with them – and be proud to fall by their sides.

General Windu spoke at last. "The loss of clone life is always terrible. Whether it's thousands on the battlefield or a handful on a mission like this. You're right, ARC Trooper Fives. We can't forget the sacrifices our clone troopers make. But they, too, died for the cause of victory and peace. The Nexus Route will enable the Republic to get an upper hand in this war and hopefully bring it to a quicker end, saving the lives of countless people, including your brothers."

"The sooner plotted the coordinates are, the sooner put to use they will be. Debrief Captain Tarkin and Commander Tano separately, we shall."

At this, Captain Tarkin replied, "With all due respect, Master Jedi, I was instructed by Chancellor Palpatine to bring the intel directly to him for debriefing."

Ahsoka did not let a breath go by. "I promised Master Piell I would deliver it only to the Council. And that's what I will do."

Again, the room fell silent at this impasse.

At length, Yoda sighed. "Personally meet with the chancellor, I will. Decide how to solve this problem, we shall." A pause. "The debriefing is concluded."

No sooner had the holo-connection been terminated than Anakin turned to his padawan. He spoke in a low voice. "You shouldn't have made that promise, Ahsoka."

Ahsoka was not deterred. "I was the one there, Master. It was my decision to make."

"You weren't even supposed to be on the mission," Anakin reminded her with a quiet intensity that made his displeasure abundantly clear. "Now, you want to dictate its success? I'm telling you right now, Ahsoka, the only reason we went on that mission was to get that information. One way or another, the two pieces are going to come together. Otherwise, the deaths of the men we lost will be meaningless. I'm not going to let that happen."

"Why should I have to be the one to break my word?" Ahsoka replied with equal vehemence. "Let Captain Tarkin give his part of the information to the Council."

"Why? Because Captain Tarkin is a senior officer. _You_ are a _padawan learner_ who thinks she can take things into her own hands and question authority, no matter who it comes from." He paused at the sight of Rex and Cody leaving the room, Fives and Bounce trailing behind them. And it was not the first time something made his blood boil. He looked once more at Ahsoka. "The battalion paid a heavy price on this mission. Two of our best men – dead. And the only survivor from the 212th contingent is Bounce. I'm not about to let petty territorial squabbles bring this whole thing to a stand-still. And I'm disappointed that you would even consider being part of such a thing." He began heading for the exit.

"Master!" Ahsoka called out as she started after him, but a gentle arm held her back.

"Let him go, child."

 _Master Plo_.

"But he's being unreasonable," she began. She was speaking to Plo Koon but her eyes were on Anakin's back as he left the room. "He has to know that I can't break a promise. And—and I serve the Council, not the Chancellor—"

"We _all_ serve the Chancellor, Ahsoka," Plo corrected in his easy, matter-of-fact way. "But your master's anger has nothing to do with that. I believe he shares the ARC trooper's assessment of the mission, and he feels his men were put at unnecessary risk. He wants to make sure their deaths are not in vain."

Ahsoka faced him sadly. "Do you think I should give the information to the Chancellor? I'd be breaking my promise to Master Piell."

"I don't believe it will come to that. You must give the information to the Council, and the Council must give it to the Chancellor. We are his generals, not his superiors. We serve at his pleasure."

Ahsoka frowned. It was sound, solid advice. And it was the truth. "Very well, Master Plo. At least that way, I'll be keeping my word."

"In the meantime, you need to make amends to your master," Plo told her. "I fear I may have been wrong in not discouraging you from stealing aboard for this mission. It turns out that I've put you in an awkward position."

"I can handle it—"

"It's not a matter of handling it, little 'Soka," Plo said solemnly. "It's about doing the right thing. It's always about doing the right thing."

* * *

Rex and Cody slowed down to let Fives and Bounce catch up with them.

"You okay, Fives?" Rex inquired.

Instead of giving an answer to the question, Fives replied, "I hope I wasn't too out-of-line in there, Captain. I hope I didn't get you or the general in trouble."

"You gave your opinion," Rex replied. "I agreed with a lot of what you had to say." A subtle glance told Cody that Rex would like to be alone with his trooper. Cody took the hint and moved off with Bounce towards the squadron areas.

Rex began walking slowly. Fives walked beside him.

The captain began speaking directly and without the fluff of so many other officers. "I was proud of him. He was one smart _meermet_ – too smart for his own good, sometimes. Bringing the two of you into the 501st was one of the best decisions I ever made."

Fives was stoically silent.

Rex went on. "It doesn't surprise me he died doing something like that. He was a risk-taker."

At this, Fives interjected in a soft voice. "He didn't used to be. He used to do everything by the book, and that meant there wasn't any room for taking risks." A pause. "Hevy taught him how to take a chance, how to fly by the seat of his pants. It cost him his life this time."

"It was a courageous thing to do—"

"No, it wasn't. It was-he didn't give it any thought," Fives countered, and a trickle of anger weaved through his voice. "There was no way they were going to let him get to the shuttle. They weren't going to let _any_ of us get to it. He should have known better."

They continued walking without speaking for nearly a half a minute before Fives said with a sense of finality, "I'm the only one left. It's just me now."

And even though Rex understood what he meant, as his captain, he had to try and bolster his spirits and point out the obvious. "You may have lost your squad mates, but you have a battalion of brothers who are still there to back you up and check your six."

Fives nodded slightly.

"It's not the same, I know," Rex went on. "But it's a future we all face. We don't live long lives. Eventually, there will always be _only one left_."

"Well, then let me say that I would have rather gone first, because this 'last man standing' osik . . . it doesn't feel good. Echo was a better man than me. He should be here. Not me."

"It doesn't work like that," Rex stated. "We'd all give our lives to save our brothers. But we can't bargain our way with fate."

"I'm not sure I believe that, Captain," Fives replied. "I would hope—I would really hope that we have some kind of control over our lives and our futures. Because . . . even if no one else gave a damn about Echo, _I_ did. And I'm not going to let his death be a waste."

"A lot of us cared about Echo," Rex pointed out, but Fives was quick to interject.

"Yeah . . . but not everybody. And after today, he's just going to be one more clone that died along the way to peace. Huh, if peace ever comes."

There was so much tension roiling beneath the surface, Rex could feel it reaching out and crawling over his skin. Five was giving a good external appearance, holding it together for the most part, expressing his concerns and dissatisfaction with control. But Rex was not fooled. The veneer would not stand, could not stand.

The only question was, when would it finally crack into pieces?


	95. Chapter 93

_**Dear Reader, Well, this will be the last chapter before I go on vacation during July. I will be gone the whole month, and after that, it's Umbara. Thanks to my reviewers, Braveseeker3, CT7567Rules, Akira-Hayama, Ms CT-782, The Unnamed Guest, Guest, and Sued13. I certainly appreciate the feedback. This chapter brings back some of the boys from the beginning: Sixer, Sempe, DB, Ajax. We also get our first mention of "Corporal Appo" - not a sergeant yet! This chapter, by its title, is about Fives. I'll explain why I felt I needed to include this chapter at the end. It's really not necessary to the plot, but I think some exposition is warranted. Enjoy and see you in August! Peace, CS**_

Chapter 93 Fives

" _I thought that pain and truth were things that really mattered,  
but you can't stay here with every single hope you have shattered."_

 _Big Country  
_ Big Country

* * *

"We're going to be overrun, Lieutenant. Where is Jango Company? They should have been here by now."

Sixer never failed to be impressed with Sempe's ability to maintain his calm, no matter how dire the circumstances. Fek and all, the man had been shot in the leg, was unable to walk on his own, and was clearly in a great deal of pain; yet he was as even-keeled as a sail-barge.

"You're right," Sixer agreed. "It's not like Fin to be late to the battle." He opened his battalion-wide channel once more through the helmet comm. "Fin, is everything alright? Where the hell are you guys? We're taking heavy fire here. I have a lot of men down."

There was a brief crackling pause before the response came.

And it wasn't what Sixer had expected to hear.

"4th platoon should be at your location by now. I sent them out over twenty minutes ago."

Sixer glanced at Sempe. Even through their darkened visors, they could read each other's expressions.

"Well . . . they haven't made it here yet," Sixer replied. "And we're going to be flushed out within ten minutes if reinforcements don't get here."

"Fek and all." Fin was grumbling into his open comm. "Let me find out what's going on."

"Can you send another platoon?" Sixer asked. "Maybe 4th got ambushed or ran into trouble."

"All my other platoons are spread out on other flanks. I can't pull them back – and it would take too much time—"

"I can send one of mine." This was Jesse breaking into the conversation. "We just pushed the enemy back at our location. I can have a platoon there in . . . ten minutes."

"Make it five."

"Will do."

"And Fin, you'd better get a handle on 4th. This is getting fekking ridiculous. And dangerous," Jesse warned.

"You don't need to tell me, Jesse," Fin replied, and he sounded both frustrated and tired. "This is the last straw."

Fin closed the open comm and went to his company's frequency. "Fives, it's Fin. Where the hell are you guys? Hoth Company is getting wiped out, and you're supposed to be there by now. Where are you?"

Fives considered ignoring the call from his company commander. He might have actually done just that, except that everyone else in his platoon had heard the communication. Refusing to reply would be pushing it just a bit too far. He wasn't going to flaunt any outright insubordination—not this time, at least; but neither was he going to just go running headlong into a rescue operation without knowing precisely how things stood. Damn, he wasn't going to risk his own men's lives in a fruitless attempt to save another company that perhaps couldn't be saved. And if Sixer's men were that pinned down, that imperiled, then Fives would judge what was best to be done. Not Fin. Fin might be the company commander, but he was not on scene.

"We're still enroute," Fives replied curtly.

"Are you encountering resistance?"

"Not so far."

"Then you should have been there by now. Fives, pick up the pace and get in there. Sixer's guys are taking a beating," Fin ground out.

"I'm trying to find the best way to approach," Fives replied. "I can hear the fighting. If we go in there, a single platoon, we're going to be outnumbered as well. We have to surprise them, catch them off-guard, and knock the osik out of them before they realize we're only a platoon-sized element."

"The task isn't too defeat them, Fives," Fin reminded him. "It's to draw fire just long enough for Sixer's men to pull back. Once they've reached the river, your men will pull back, too. You're only there to cover their retreat."

"Copy." Fives didn't sound any more convinced than he felt. The truth was, he was going to follow his own plan. He was going to keep his own men safe while still attempting to help Sixer's company. And he didn't care what Fin or Sixer or Jesse had to say about it. There was really only one officer whose opinion carried any weight – well, two, if Jedi were to be included in the calculus—and both Rex and General Skywalker had remained silent on the matter thus far. And unless the orders were coming directly from one of them, they were subject to interpretation—or as Fives freely acknowledged to himself, outright defiance, if he thought they weren't sound.

He turned and made a quick glance over the twenty-four men who comprised his platoon. "We need to find their gun emplacements and take them out," he said over the helmet comm. "DB, you and Hellcat take two more with you and go scout ahead, find where the fire is coming from."

Double-Barrel closed off his circuit so that only Fives could hear him. "Fives, that's not what the lieutenant's ordered us to do. He wants us in there – now."

"We'll get in there – after we make sure it's safe," Fives replied.

"It's never going to be safe," DB said pointedly. "We weren't made to wait around until things get safe—"

"I know precisely why we were made," Fives shot back heatedly. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to throw away the lives of men just like that. So, either you're going to do things my way, or I'll find someone else to do it."

DB was not one to be easily intimidated, and certainly, a few sharp words could not come close to offending him. But he also knew when to object and when to hold off. Besides, he could always manipulate the scenario more to his own liking once he had left the rest of the platoon.

"Just don't be surprised if the lieutenant is thinking the same thing about you," he said. "None of us is indispensable, Fives. Not even an ARC trooper." He turned and motioned Ajax up to his side. "We've got a bit of a mission."

Fives turned to Hellcat with an almost antagonistic slant. "What about you?"

Hellcat was the sort of clone whose name suited him to a tee. He liked to raise hell. He liked to fight. He was tough, and he knew it. He had the reflexes and patience of a cat, and the single-mindedness of a stalking animal. And although he had an independent streak, he was also loyal and dependable. Hellcat always got the job done – and not always in the most orthodox way.

"I think you should follow Lieutenant Fin's orders," he replied bluntly. "But I can see you're not going to; and since you're my platoon leader, I'll do what you tell me."

Fives would not attempt to justify his decisions. These were, after all, ultimately Rex's troopers. They had his mindset, his mentality; and that meant they were for mission success at all costs. Fives understood the sentiment. He had shared it, himself, for most of his life. It wasn't until Echo's death three months ago that his opinion had begun to change. For better, for worse? That all depended on to whom the question was being directed.

Fives put little stock in opinions that were contrary to his own, but he could not afford to ignore where Rex stood on matters that concerned the battalion. However, he had become adept at skirting around those of his captain's orders which he deemed faulty – and he used just enough tact and deception to make it look as if he were doing his best to fulfill those orders.

Or so he believed. In truth, he was fooling no one.

As he watched Hellcat choose Blackie and move out together, he felt assured that his decision to recon the firing positions and take them out was better than barging in head-first.

But the truth that eluded him in his own efforts at self-deception was that his troops did not share his assurance. They did not share his estimation of the situation.

In fact, as soon as Double-Barrel had set off with Ajax, the marksman had opened his battalion-wide channel. He wanted his lieutenant and his captain to hear what was going on. Something had to be done, and short of an out-right mutiny, this was the best option he could think of.

And it would not have surprised him to know that Hellcat had done the very same thing.

If this rescue action were to end up being a complete debacle, both DB and Hellcat wanted the command to know upon whose pauldroned shoulders the blamed should be squarely placed.

* * *

Rex could not believe what he was hearing.

No, that wasn't true. That wasn't true at all. The fact was he could completely believe it.

That was the problem. This wasn't a simple mistake in judgment, the result of the pressures and stress of battle. This was yet another calculated decision to take the most cautious – and least effective—route to achieving the mission.

Fek and all, the mission was to lay down cover fire for Hoth Company's retreat. So, why in hell was Fives sending out scouts? Everyone knew where Sixer's company was pinned down. Everyone knew they were getting the tar beat out of them. The task was to get them out of there.

Rex listened for five minutes of back-and-forth between DB and Fives; with each passing second, he waited to hear that Fives was moving his platoon up. And with each passing second, he grew more convinced that Fives was perfectly content to hold at his current position until his scouts carried out their long-shot mission of taking out the gun emplacements.

If things continued along this course, Rex knew he would have to take strong action.

* * *

"Wherever the guns are, they aren't on this side of Hoth's line," DB reported. "They must be flanking them."

"Keep looking," Fives ordered.

"That's a wide radius to check," DB noted. "I don't think Sixer's men have the time—"

"Which is why you need to move quickly."

DB turned to Ajax and shook his head, silently conveying his frustration.

But Ajax knew a secret. It was the sort of secret shared only between best friends. And DB was his best friend, his battle buddy. He made a turning motion with his fist, indicating that DB should close all his comm channels.

DB complied. He already knew what was coming. "You're going to tell me I should do it."

"I don't see any other way to get around this," Ajax replied. "Fives isn't going to change his mind. He isn't going to listen to Fin, and the captain hasn't intervened. I think you should do it."

"Yeah, but every time I use it, I feel like . . . I'm doing something I'm not supposed to do."

"Look, it didn't happen for nothing. I'm not a superstitious guy, but you were given a gift, brother; and you need to use it. You need to use it now."

"Enh, fek . . . "

"Come on, DB."

"Fine. I'll do it," came the grudging concession. "But this can't always be the answer in these tough situations. And, by the Force, Ajax, if you ever say a word about this to the captain, I'll skin you alive."

"Not a word. Though I'd be surprised if he hadn't already figured it out."

"Ugh, even worse."

"Get on with it."

DB took a deep breath, closed his eyes behind his visor, and sought out the small part of his soul that derived its being from something outside himself.

It had been over a year, but it was just as the Doma had said. The eagle that had saved his life back on the crumbling spires of the Taber had imparted some small sliver of its own energy, its own soul. And that sliver had stayed with DB since that moment – never overpowering, most of the time barely even perceptible. But DB had discovered one amazing ability that had come with that infusion of eagle soul.

That soul could rise up in obeisance to its own nature, at the prompting of its host, and soar far and wide. In essence, it had given DB the ability to gain a bird's eye view of whatever it was he wanted to see. While his body remained anchored to the ground, the eagle soul gave him vision over great expanses.

It had been disconcerting at first; and truth be told, it still was, but to a much lesser degree. And quite a surprise, naturally. The mere thought, the simple wish of being able to see what lay farther field had been enough to move the spirit into action. The first time it had happened, DB had thought he was losing his mind. Yet, the eagle had somehow found a way to impart to him an understanding of what was going on. And indeed, the courage and strength that formed part of the eagle's nature had also taken root in DB's own soul, which made acceptance of the situation more tolerable.

As the months had gone by, DB had not just grown used to the soul's presence, but he had found himself growing attached to and even fond of the eagle. And it was this very fondness that made him shy away from using the soul's treasures as his own. He could sense that the eagle would gladly give him of all that it possessed, that its source of being could not be diminished. Yet, making use of those abilities made DB feel greedy and selfish – even if undertaken for the good of others, as in this case.

And so it was rare that he took the eagle up on its perpetual offering. And he had done everything in his power to hide the truth from his fellow troopers – even his captain. Why, the only reason Ajax knew was because DB had needed someone to confide in. It had been too great a gift to keep secret. He knew he could trust Ajax, and Ajax had proven himself worthy of that trust.

Now, as the eagle soul mounted skyward, DB could look down on where he and his friend were standing; and he felt that momentary sense of gratefulness that flitted across his awareness every time he allowed himself a chance to acknowledge just how good a friend Ajax was. There he stood, steady and alert, keeping an eye out if any of the enemy should approach while DB was otherwise engaged. Fearless, smart—a lot smarter than himself, DB was certain—and selfless to a fault. Yes, DB was fortunate to have someone like Ajax looking out for him.

Moments later, the eagle soul had traveled less than two kilometers when its precise vision detected a line of the enemy beneath the trees. Droids, this time around. And plenty of them. There seemed to be a never-ending supply. And sure enough, on a slightly raised berm and hidden in a heavy tree line, was a rapid-fire nest.

"That's what Fives wants us to take out?" he said out loud.

Ajax knew he wasn't looking for an answer, so he remained silent.

"I can probably get close enough to use the long gun," DB went on, as if speaking to himself. "But there's no way we'll get close enough to toss in any grenades. We'll have to pick them off one by one, sniper style – and fast. I hope your aim is on today, brother."

That last sentence was clearly meant for Ajax, and now he answered, "Never as on as yours, but I'll make my targets."

* * *

"DB and Ajax's comm just cut out," Denal announced.

Rex had also noticed that fact. It could mean trouble. Then again, it might only mean that the pair was taking precautionary measures not to have their signals detected by the enemy. Rex conducted a quick comm scan in his HUD; Hellcat and Blackie were still on the battalion-wide frequency. He was moving beyond frustration into anger.

"Fives, report. Why haven't you moved your platoon up?"

"We're reconning the situation right now, captain—"

"This isn't a recon mission, Fives. What's required here is firepower. Get your platoon up there now. That's an order."

"Captain, there are rapid-fire gun emplacements. We need to take those out first. I've sent two teams out to locate them and put them out of action."

"Fives, move your platoon up _now_."

"Captain, I can't do that. There's too much risk—"

"Corporal Appo, you are now in command of 4th platoon. Fives, you are being relieved of command."

Silence followed. The order was quite unexpected.

Fives, especially, felt the sting of the rebuke. Not from any sense of embarrassment, but because he had been dressed down for trying to protect his men. Damn! Rex, of all men, should be able to empathize with him.

"Fives, acknowledge."

"I acknowledge, Captain."

"Corporal Appo? Fin? You copy?"

"Yes, Captain," came the replies.

"Appo, get the platoon to Sixer's position and cover their retreat, and make it fast."

"Right away, Sir."

Denal looked at his captain. "I doubt that will go over well."

"It had to be done."

Denal nodded. "I hope it's not too late."

* * *

"Fives, we've located the gun emplacements. It's going to be impossible to get close enough to take them out without being detected. We're going to have to use good, old-fashioned sniper tactics." Double Barrel, back from his out-of-body trip, now reopened his channel and passed on what he had seen.

"DB, this is Appo," came the response. "Fives had been relieved of command. I'm in charge right now." He continued on while both DB and Ajax were still absorbing this sudden change of events. "We're heading due east right now. Can you give us a good location from which to cover Hoth's retreat?"

DB felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His breath trailed out in a sigh of relief. "Yes, I can. I definitely can." He made a quick calculation in his HUD and relayed the coordinates. "Ajax and I will meet up with you. Don't mistake us for the enemy."

"Just be careful," Appo warned. "There's already a lot of confusion, and there's going to be a lot of blaster fire in that area."

"Roger. We'll be careful." DB turned to Ajax. "Let's get moving."

* * *

Failure.

It wasn't a word that came easily from Rex's tongue. But it was a reality.

The battalion, as a whole, had been forced to retreat. Three of the 501's eight companies had lost more than 25 percent of their men. The rhydonium processing facility was still intact. Blowing it had not been an option, given the volatility of the gas. Intelligence had badly under-reported the number of droids guarding the facility, not to mention an assortment of indigenous forces who had known the lay of the land and how to make the most of it.

But Rex's unhappiness was nothing compared to General Skywalker's outrage.

"We should have been able to take that facility." His face was dark and his voice teetering on the edge of explosive as he spoke aboard the retreating gunship he now shared with Rex and two dozen other troopers. "In the entire planetary-wide battle, we had one mission: to take the facility." His glower deepened. "How did they know where we'd be coming from?"

"I don't know, General," Rex replied. "We've had spies before. Maybe we have another one."

"If we do, he's going to wish he were never born," Anakin seethed. "We lost a lot of men down there – all because the enemy knew what we were going to do."

"It's possible our communications were intercepted," Denal stated. "Or we were fed false intel. The Seppies are getting more clever at finding ways to deliver defeats."

"Then we have to get more clever at finding ways to outsmart them," came the heated reply. "And a good start will be insisting that battalion commanders get to draw up their own battle plans."

Rex had known this was coming. From the moment the battle of Denkendar had been brought up as a possibility, General Skywalker had not liked the way things had progressed. He'd been more than miffed that the 501st had, from the outset, been relegated to a protective role, providing security for the 8016th Demolitions Squadron. The 501st was a spear point unit, not a support actor.

And on top of that, every detail of the assault, down to the approach vectors, weaponry, and rules of enegagement, had been decided—hammered out, actually—between the Jedi Council and the Ministry of Defense. Normally, the upper echelons left it to their field commanders to formulate a strategy and plan of attack. But due solely to the presence of rhydonium, the leadership had felt it necessary to pull the strings and guide the ropes on this mission.

Now, what did they have to show for it?

Abject failure. And a lot of bodies.

It was times like this when Rex liked to fall back on his "simple soldier" defense. He might fully agree with his Jedi General – and in, fact, he did; but he also knew it was not prudent to fuel the general's ire, especially as of late. Skywalker's already-short fuse seemed to have been trimmed even shorter.

Rex knew there were reasons why, though mysterious and beyond the world of "simple soldiers."

Strange things had happened. Witches, beings of light and dark, possessions, reincarnations . . . none of which Rex had witnessed first-hand, but of which he'd heard plenty of eye-witness accounts, not the least of which had come from Ahsoka . . .

Whatever the genesis of such events, one thing was clear. Their overall effect was to turn General Skywalker closer to his role as General and further from his role as Jedi. That suited Rex fine, but he could not help but wonder how the Council felt about it, for surely they had noticed the change, as well. And Rex was well aware that, in the past, the Council had not valued Skywalker's worth as they should. The captain had always felt a sense of indignation on behalf of his general over the perceived sleight.

"It doesn't sound like they're having much luck on any of the fronts," Denal went on. "This may be a planet-wide defeat for the Republic."

The conversation continued between the two – General Skywalker was never averse to discussing matters with any of his troops; but Rex held his silence. The truth was that the largeness of the defeat, the totality of the world-wide battle, was not on his mind at the moment.

There was nothing he could do about dead men. There was nothing he could do about the decisions made by hologram war choreographers ensconced safely back on Coruscant.

But there was one thing over which he did have control.

And it was not a problem that was going to go away . . . unless he took action.

Yet, while foremost on his mind, it was the last thing he wanted to deal with.

* * *

"Sorry to disturb you, Captain."

" _Fin. Well, it took even less time than I thought it would."_

"But we need to talk to you. It's important."

" _Sixer. It must be serious. Yeah, it's serious. I already knew that."_

"Come in," Rex said, stepping back from the door to his cabin. "It must be urgent if you two felt you needed to come to my personal quarters to talk to me."

"Well, Sir, I think you know why we're here," Sixer ventured.

"It's about Fives," Fin added.

Rex nodded slowly.

Fin went on. "Put bluntly, he's become impossible, Captain. Ever since Echo was killed, it's like—like a large part of Fives went with him. He's insubordinate, overly cautious, even downright defiant."

"The only reason any of my company is alive right now is because Jesse brought his company in and saved our asses," Sixer stated. "So, while I like Fives very much as a friend and brother-in-arms, right now, he's the last man I want guarding my flank. He's just become unreliable."

Rex sighed. "I know." Yes, he did know. He knew better than either of them. He'd known for weeks. He'd proceeded on the hope that time would heal the damage Echo's death had done to Fives. But he could no longer afford to strategize on hope.

"Neither of us has any suggestions of what to do about him," Sixer went on. "But . . . he needs to come off the line, Captain. If you hadn't pulled him from command, you'd have lost an entire company."

"I'm sorry, Captain," Fin said, truly contrite. "We all like Fives, but he's . . . well, he's messed up right now, and he's not doing anyone any good. Maybe . . . maybe he needs some time to pull himself together. I know we clones have a reputation for being . . . unmovable, but even a clone has his breaking point."

"It's not the stress of battle, Captain," Six concluded. "It's the pain of losing Echo. Fives isn't afraid to confront the enemy. He's afraid of losing anyone along the way."

Everything they were saying only solidified in Rex's mind the things he already knew; but to hear such accounts from two of his company commanders meant that situation had probably become visible to the entire battalion; and that was not good for morale or victory.

"I appreciate the two of you coming to me," Rex acknowledged. "And I appreciate your honesty. I'll handle it in the way I think is best."

"Yes, Sir," both men replied together, then Sixer said thoughtfully, "I hope we haven't created a dilemma for you, Captain."

"There's a dilemma alright," Rex conceded. "But you're not the ones who created it."

* * *

Just after 2000 hours.

Now was as good a time as any. Actually, it would be more fitting to say, now was as bad a time as any.

But it had to be done. There was no sense in delaying.

Rex raised his wrist comm; but before he had a chance to speak, the door buzzed.

Opening the door, he was surprised to see Fives standing on the threshold. Yet, he thought wryly that it had saved him a summons.

"Fives."

"Do you have a minute, Captain? There's something I want to talk to you about."

Rex moved to one side. "Come in." He did not tell Fives that he had been just about to call him to his quarters.

Fives walked inside, stood with his back to his captain for a few courage-gathering seconds, then turned and spoke quickly and resolutely. "I'd like to request a transfer to another unit."

Rex looked at him for a long moment of silence. At last, he said, "May I ask why?"

Fives sighed audibly. "Captain, you know why. I can't . . . I can't stay in the 501st anymore. I can't be with these men." He paused. "Every single one of them just makes me think of Echo. This was _our_ battalion. Jango was _our_ company. This unit and these guys were the only things that mattered to us after what happened on Rishi. And I . . . I made the same mistake I made as a Shinie. I'm too close. They've become too important." He could no longer look his captain in the eye. "I'm too afraid of making a mistake and costing even one of them his life."

Rex waited expectantly. He knew there was more to the story.

Fives seemed to struggle with his captain's silence, as if he'd been hoping for some kind of prompt to continue. The silence itself turned out to be that very prompt.

"I know the rest of them aren't very happy with me right now," Fives confessed. "I can't blame them. I'm not very happy with myself either, but you know that I can't . . . "

 _Here it comes._

"I can't just throw the lives of my platoon mates away if I think there might be a better way."

And this was the crux of it, just as Rex had suspected. It wasn't simply that Echo's death had made Fives fearful of needless deaths. It had wormed into him the idea, the necessity, that any mission, any order needed to be scrutinized and evaluated within his own personal standards of acceptability.

And this was a dangerous thing – not only for Fives, but for those very men he was trying to protect and the mission they were tasked to accomplish.

Rex chided himself. He should have seen this coming. Fives had long had an independent streak. That independence had, in the beginning, manifested itself in a propensity for Fives to prefer his own company (and that of Echo) to the company of others. He had been content to see himself as one of a pair within a battalion of 800 men. It had taken many months for that somewhat superior sense of isolation to pass; and its passing had more to do with Echo's ready melding into the 501st than any actions undertaken by members of the battalion. For as odd as it seemed, Echo had always been the one to set the course for the two survivors of Domino Squad. Echo, though somewhat awkward and often irritating with his penchant for the verbatim recitation of information both significant and trivial, had always been an easier fit, more outgoing, and with a genuine interest in every fact, detail, story and possibility, endearing him to others even as it spurred their impatience.

Echo had loved knowledge for its own sake. He'd found fascination in other people and creatures for their own sakes. In some strange way, the rigid Echo of the rulebook had actually possessed a great capacity for adaptability and change. Echo, without Fives, would have continued to be Echo as he had always been.

Fives, on the other hand, had always been a man in search of meaning. Soldiering had never been a satisfactory answer for him. The closest he'd ever come to finding purpose in fighting was on Kamino, defending his home world. The other source of meaning for Fives had been Echo. Echo's tendency to approach every situation with full intention and vigor had been strong enough that it had carried Fives along with it. It would not be inaccurate to say that Echo had been the motivating and stabilizing force in Fives' life after the loss of the rest of the squad.

Echo's loss had removed the constraints on Fives' more pessimistic and lugubrious side, and it was that set of characteristics that was now starting to come to the forefront.

Fives, without Echo, was once again a man in search of meaning, an unsettled soul.

And at the moment, a liability to the battalion.

"It's reasonable to want to make sure you're taking all the right courses of action," Rex said evenly. "But you're a corporal, Fives; and you have a company commander. And a battalion first-in-command. You can't decide to disobey orders just because you don't like them. And transferring to another unit isn't going to change that. The chain-of-command isn't something you can throw away whenever you want."

"Maybe I need something where I can be . . . more autonomous," Fives suggested.

"Such as?"

"One of the ARC battalions." Fives almost acted as if he feared his captain would reject the idea out-of-hand, so he went on quickly, "They send out their troops on special missions all the time. They send out loaners. It—it would make it easier not to, uh . . . not to get attached to the guys. Just in for the mission and then out."

Rex leaned back against his desk. "Those are highly competitive slots."

"You could put in a good word for me," Fives replied. "You and General Skywalker. Commander Cody. General Kenobi." He was almost plaintive. "Captain, please. It's not good for the battalion for me to remain here. And it's not good for me."

"Are you sure this is what you want? This isn't just because of Echo's death?"

Fives spoke with resolve. "It _is_ because of Echo. But it won't get any better if I stay here. I need a transfer, Captain. I need a chance to clear my head."

Rex could not help but feel a sense of sadness; still, he could not disagree with anything Fives had said. In fact, Fives had done him a favor by bringing up the subject on his own.

"If it's what you really want, I'll see what I can do."

"It's what I have to do. It'll be best for everybody."

"Very well." Rex straightened up. "Just keep this under your helmet until I see if I can swing it."

"Thank you, Captain."

"Huh, don't thank me," Rex replied. And he meant it. When he'd been about to summon Fives to his quarters, it was with the intention of a full dressing-down, complete with the threat of disciplinary action.

Now, five minutes later, he was on the verge of losing a hand-picked soldier, an ARC trooper he himself had field-appointed. And all he felt was a vague sense of defeat and resignation, the recognition that this just might be the only viable solution.

The filamentary guilt that, somehow, he had let Fives down.

 _ **So, I had to get Fives out of the battalion, because when Umbara starts, Fives mentions to Rex, "Just like old times." It's clear in Umbara that Fives has been away from the 501st for a while, so I had to set that up. Of course, in Umbara, Fives doesn't know Jesse or Hardcase (which is ridiculous because they were in the same battalion for quite some time - but I'll deal with that in writing the next chapter). So, I needed to get Fives out of the 501st, and I thought this was the best way to do it. And it will help lay the groundwork for his actions on Umbara. For my Fives' fans, I hope you don't think I was too rough on him. I love Fives, but I had to make him just "damaged" enough that he had to move on for his own sake and the sake of the battalion.**_

 _ **Also, a note . . . I hope you all remember the eagle that saved DB when the taber was destroyed. It makes an appearance (sort of) in this chapter.**_


End file.
